


Neville Longbottom and the Truly Terrible Tasting Tea

by muskoxen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Dirty Talk, Explicit Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Lovers to Friends, Sex Pollen, discussion of miscarriage, sex with socks on, well sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-07-18 19:50:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 34,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16125515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muskoxen/pseuds/muskoxen
Summary: Neville's finally back from his research trip to the Arctic, so Hermione pops by for a quick cuppa and a catchup.Things do not go quite to plan.Featuring: a twist on the sex pollen plot device; Neville Longbottom's pureness and lack thereof; friends, or the people you most want to murder; implied workplace prejudices; the Chudley Cannons; digressions on textiles; an uncanny dog; another twist; and, a Hallowe'en party.Written in full, posted in parts.





	1. One

The thing is, Hermione absolutely _loves_ Neville’s home.

Every other male in her life has a place to live, of course, but Neville is the only one with a _home_. Ron, living with George in Diagon Alley, has something that can generously be described as a flat but certainly couldn’t have the adjective _decorated_ applied to it. Even Harry, who is understandably neurotic when comes to anything involving concepts like _family_ , _home_ , and _unconditional love_ doesn’t treat either of his properties like Neville does.

Neville treats his place like a refuge, as something that blossoms with nurturing and care. Like a beloved friend you’re particularly proud of.

It’s a very romantic notion, she acknowledges to herself, but then she’s in a romantic mood.

It feels like autumn’s truly arrived as she leaves Scrivenshaft’s with five new indexaskin journals in her bag. Unbelievable they hadn’t been around whilst she was at Hogwarts – imagine how much more efficient studying would have been with self-searching notes!

No, it doesn’t bear thinking about.

Aside from the wonders of modern magical stationery, Hermione’s entire week has been looking up. She’s just rounded off her first full year at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures and is really starting to get the hang of how to make the most impact. Oh, granted, those first few months were a bit tough when everyone thought she’d just roll over and play the crony game they were all familiar with. But now, well. Now things are really cooking along quite well, she’d say.

Although there is still the issue with werewolves.

Hermione feels her pace start to stall, but then shakes her head and determines not to let it ruin her mood. Abolishing the systemic legislative and socioeconomic oppression of werewolves is already in her five-year plan, after all. She’ll get to it soon, and societal and legal revolutions don’t happen overnight.

Besides, it’s Saturday and Neville’s back from his second-year research trip to Siberia.

And she also has a date with Ron tomorrow.

Well, they’re going to the Cannons’ exhibition match with Harry and Ginny. The Harpies are playing them next week and Ginny’s determined to review their tactics in person. It’s date-ish. They’ll be there together, and Harry and Ginny will be together, and they’ll probably eat there and perhaps get a drink afterward.

And she’s wearing her favorite jumper!

Yes, she’s feeling quite romantic in a hazy Victorian sort of way, full of overwrought poetry and trees gilded by the setting sun.

And self-indexing journals.

Neville’s house sits just outside Hogsmeade proper on the southern edge of the town, down a little rutted dirt lane edged by drystack walls. His property line is picked out by a three-board fence and an unbroken perimeter of juvenile Wiggentrees, interrupted only by a lovely little gate painted a cheerful fire-red.

Beyond the gate, he’s transformed his modest cottage property into an Herbologist’s dream. The front yard is in full glory, filled with edibles at every height. The nut trees have tarps underneath to catch their bounty, and the fruit trees are webbed in gossamer nets to protect their yields. There are trellises heavy with squash and beans, with more squash and cabbages and broccoli and greens beneath. Even the cottage’s gleaming windows are trimmed with window boxes chest-high with herbs.

Hermione walks down the little flagstone path and underneath the decorative trellis absolutely swathed in climbing roses, onto the front porch crowded with potted plants.

“Nev?” she calls into the open window but doesn’t get a response. Unsurprising.

Familiar with Neville’s habits and his home, she doesn’t bother trying to track him down. He’s undoubtedly in one of the greenhouses, tending his plants after his long absence. Instead, she heads through the unlocked front door, toes off her muddy boots, and deposits her bag in the kitchen. The kettle is sitting out on the stove, so she fills it and gives it a negligent tap of her wand to get the water boiling.

The way she’s feeling, it takes barely any effort at all to summon her otter Patronus and send it out to Nev, letting him know she’s here. And when his enormous, lanky dog ambles in and leans heavily into her stomach to solicit a good scratch, well.

It really is a very good day.

The kettle boils in short order and Hermione takes down Neville’s white china pot still covered in the heathered grey cozy she knit for him two years ago. What an absolute corker, Nev is.

Except he has absolutely _nothing_ in the cupboards.

Hermione pokes around the entire kitchen. The cold box, at least, has some produce and a round of brie and the larder has some ingredients – flour, salt, what have you – and some preserved goods, but the boy has no tea. No biscuits, either.

He has plants in spades, however. Half the cupboards have their doors removed and they and the countertop and windowsills are one, two, three deep in ferns, herbs, orchids, bromeliads, and more. There’re even trees in here, a dwarf lemon in bloom next to the doorway and a something with glossy tropical leaves taking pride of place in front of the South-facing window.

Hermione scowls, checks the seasoning cupboard again, even tries an “ _Accio tea!_ ” to no avail. So when she spies the market bag on the entry table and the little stoneware jar next to it, she naturally investigates. And what should she see inside the little jar with the cork top, but tea, likely purchased today just ahead of her visit. And digestives and milk and eggs and butter and bread in the market bag.

No doubt about it. Neville’s just brilliant.

Hermione’s pouring the hot water over the tea when she hears the back door open and Neville shucking his things in the mudroom.

“Sorry – had to tend the mandrakes,” he calls through the doorway.

“Perfect timing, I’ve just got tea on,” she replies over her shoulder and gathers everything with a swish to carry them out to the sitting room in a little floating dance straight out of a Disney movie. The dog follows, ready in the way dogs always are to clean up a stray crumb. She can hear Neville stripping out of his gardening smock and kicking off his wellies, so she’s ready to receive his hug when he comes around the corner, arms spread wide.

“Hermione!” She forgets half the time that the sweet little boy on the train has been replaced with this stranger, with his wide shoulders and rawboned wrists and nails black with dirt. He’s even grown into his teeth, flashing a lovely white smile in welcome before she’s swooped up into his arms for a warm hug, his autumn-cold cheek pressed to hers.

“Neville!” she laughs back and gives his neck an extra squeeze. He smells like the earth and biting green, just as he always does. “I’m so happy you’re back!”

“Merlin, I’m glad to be back! And to see you,” he adds as he loosens his hold and her feet touch the ground again. “Not that I didn’t enjoy my trip – Hermione, it was _amazing_ – but I can’t tell you how good it is to see a friendly face and be _home_.”

“I’ll bet,” she agrees, grinning up unabashedly as she sees the right side of his face is marked by a swipe of soil. “But why don’t you go wash up, you’re all over dirt. And do you mind if I close up the windows and start a fire – it’s a bit chilly in here!”

“Am I? Is it?” he asks, rubbing a dirty hand over his jaw. “No doubt. The place definitely needed the airing out, though – so musty! I thought I was quite tough, living in the Highlands and all, but I’ll tell you what – living that far North really does change how you think of cold!”

“I’m sure. Now go, before the tea goes cold!” and she shoos him out of the sitting room and upstairs to wash up. While she waits for him to return, she closes his windows. It takes a bit of effort to get the sash windows in the sitting room to shut, but she gets them eventually. She then stacks the logs in the fireplace and sets the little tower blazing with a flick of her wand, filling the room with warmth and the smell of applewood.

Hermione sits down and pours herself a cup of his tea. Normally, she takes hers with just a dash of milk to cool it. Nev’s tea, however, has an odd smokey, blue-gray taste that fills the back of her throat when she takes the first sip. Like lapsang souchong, mushrooms, and rosemary. By the time she’s made the cup palatable, she’s had to add considerably more milk and several spoonfuls of sugar and a warming charm to bring it back up from tepid.

 _Shopping list:_ , she writes into one of the new indexaskins and underneath, _Decent tea for N!_

The taste is still… _nontraditional_ but it’s all he has and Neville _did_ buy it just so they’d have something to drink for her visit.

Perhaps she should have given him more than a day before she stopped by?

Hm.

“Good Godric, a cuppa sounds alright about now,” Neville says as he ducks under the low lintel. He’s washed up, his short dark hair still wet at the ends and fair cheeks reddened with scrubbing, and he’s dressed in warm woolly socks, a pair of corduroy trousers, and a handsome cabled pullover with a horn-button placket and contrasting side panels. It’s probably her nicest piece yet, made in that anxious and tentatively-hopeful year they finished at Hogwarts amidst the remnants of a war. She picked the mossy green cashmere-blend up on sale, and she’ll have to get more because the yarn knitted up _beautifully_.

He’s so thoughtful, wearing her gift for her visit. Naturally, she comments as he comes into the room, “Nice jumper, there,” and Neville flashes his crooked grin at her as he doctors his tea and he replies “Isn’t it, just?”

“So,” Hermione begins after he settles across from her on the sofa, “tell me _everything._ ”

And he does. She feels justified when she notices him adding quite a bit of lemon and no small amount of sugar to his own cup, though that little glow of vindication only adds to her overall sense of well-being.

Neville’s story starts off a bit incoherent, full of _but I should start with’_ s and _that’s not to say’_ s, but he falls into the narrative in short order and she’s just absolutely _fascinated_. Neville shares all about not just the arctic magiflora he studied, but how the indigenous magical creatures and beings survive in the harsh climate.

She’s always thought the Hogwarts curriculum was far too Anglo-centric.

Twenty minutes in, she sends a subtle little spell towards the hearth, lowering the oxygen content of the air and thereby banking the fire a bit. It’s gotten quite warm in Neville’s cottage, and she’s not the only one to notice. Neville’s dog rolls to her feet and lumbers off to the cooler flagstone of the mudroom, and Neville pushes the sleeves of his jumper up his arms, revealing pale wrists and ropey forearms crisscrossed with blue-green veins, lightly furred in silky hair.

Hermione takes a sip of her terrible, tepid tea to wet her mouth.

It really is quite warm. Hermione shifts a bit on the old, squishy Chesterfield, crossing her legs to open a little gap at the base of her skirt and let the air flow over the top of her thighs above her wool stockings. She wiggles away from the warmed leather of the sofa beneath her to a fresh, cool patch and then takes a little sip of tea.

Neville continues to describe what it’s like to live in a larch-bark tent in the summertime taiga and it’s engrossing, only Hermione is having trouble concentrating because of the heat.

“Sorry,” Neville says, “just a sec,” and he pulls off his jumper and tosses it over the back of the sofa, revealing one of the soft linen undershirts so popular with wizarding folk. Silly, really, that they haven’t discovered the wonders of machine-knit cotton T-shirts. The neckline is wide enough that the flat-weave garment can be pulled over his head, so when Neville shifts forward to rest his elbows on his knees, the neckline gaps just a bit to show off the shadow of his pectorals. He palms the delicate china of his teacup, takes a sip, and gestures with his other hand as he starts telling her about the use of specially-bred reindeer to hunt out magical plants.

 _Oh_ , Hermione thinks, and shifts to cross her left leg over her right. She also valiantly ignores all thoughts about the dark hair curling over the fair skin of his chest, or the dark hair on his forearms, and how there’s probably a trail of dark hair disappearing below…

 _No_ , she tells herself, _stop it right now, Hermione Jean!_

Luckily, Neville doesn’t notice. He does set down the teacup at one point, skimming his palms over the long length of his thighs, and then shifts around as he hooks first one toe and then the other into the top of his socks and strips them off to discard them on the rug. They aren’t any socks of hers, Hermione sees, although they do look quite nice. Very warm. Woolly.

Her own stockings are also woolly, a Muggle merino-nylon blend yarn made specifically for socks and other stretchy knits. They’re toe-up construction with a smart little cable up the back for flair, and they reach well above the midpoint of her thigh. The DRCMC is so _cold_ (she keeps an actual _blanket_ in the bottom drawer of her desk for the truly frigid days), so she knitted up six pairs of these in black last winter and they’ve been a lifesaver. It’s the first day all season she’s worn them outside of work, though, and she can feel the ribbed tops catch like the teeth of a zipper as her thighs rub together.

Perhaps it’s just too early in the year for her woolens, even up here in Scotland. It’s _very_ warm.

Hermione catches herself pulling at the mock neck of her jumper, and shoves her hand under her thigh instead.

“Maybe I’ll just open a window,” she interjects as Neville takes another sip of tea. “Apparently, I overestimated how chilly it was in here because I am quite overheated. Are you? Hot?”

“Yes,” says Neville as he watches her get up and start wresting the stupid, bloody sash windows back up. _Why is it wizards insist on outdated construction?_ she grouses internally even though she knows perfectly well magic mixes poorly with modern materials like plastics and vinyl. “Very hot,” he adds as Hermione grunts and finally gets the first of the left-hand windows open.

Perhaps not her most elegant moment, she acknowledges as she half-hangs out the window, but the cool air against her heated skin is _glorious_.

“Hot,” Neville repeats, and she can see that because his cheeks are still flushed like they’re freshly-scrubbed, although it’s surely been an hour or more since he washed up. “Did I tell you the persimmons are ripe? You’ve got to try one. I’ll just…” and he disappears first outside and then into the kitchen, returning after she’s finally shoved the last window open. He’s carting a little cutting board with fiery orange slices, some of the bread, a hunk of brie with a cheese knife stuck in it.

She can tell from his intent expression that he wants her to like the red-orange fruits. The flavor is just unusual enough that it takes her a second to decide if she enjoys the taste. But, after a moment, she discovers persimmons are delicious, especially contrasted with the brie, and she tells an anxiously-watching Neville so. He gulps in relief, and she can tell he’s pleased when she takes a second slice off the cutting board and slips it between her lips after she takes another sip of the atrocious tea.

Neville says, “But enough about me. What’s happened with you? What progress have you forced the Ministry into this summer whilst they were on holiday? And what about everyone else – Harry? Ron?”

It’s probably a good idea to switch topics even though there’s still _so much_ to cover about his trip and findings because Neville’s voice is sounding a bit strained. Too much talking, probably.

“Well,” says Hermione, and dips a digestive into her tea before eating it. The sweetness of the sugared tea pairs well with the biscuit, overwhelming the unusual tasting notes. “I did manage a couple things…”

And they continue on in that fashion for a bit until teapot’s only filled with dregs and the biscuits are all gone. Hermione finds her conversation lagging, her brain wholly consumed with watching the movement of Neville’s neck as he takes his last sip of tea.

“So,” she trails off, “that’s basically it?”

“Well,” Neville reassures, “it’s quite a lot. Imagine! Harry and Ginny engaged!”

“I know,” she responds. “Not that I didn’t see it coming – and _don’t tell anyone_ but I think she might be preggers – but I’m still unused to the age at which magical folk marry. Did you know most British Muggles don’t marry until they’re 30?”

“Well,” says Neville. But really, what else is there to say?

“By the way,” he continues, “what kind of tea is this? It’s quite unusual.”

“But,” Hermione replies after a second. “Well, how should I know? It’s your tea!”

Neville looks at her blankly. “But I haven’t got any tea. At least, I’m pretty sure I haven’t. I took all mine with me on my trip, and I still ran out three weeks ago.”

“No,” Hermione reminds him. “You just got some at the shop.”

“I did?” he asks, brow creasing.

“Yeeees,” she says with a sense of dread. “When you went and got the digestives and such.”

“Ah,” says Neville with round hazel eyes. “Perhaps you’d best show me this tea?”

Hermione is feeling quite flushed, but Neville’s tone sends a little shiver down her spine.

“Perhaps I’d best,” she agrees and sets her cup down cautiously on the table.

Neville rises and lends her a hand up, which is so typical and gentlemanly of him. She uncurls her legs and takes his hand, letting him pull her to her feet. And, oh, Neville really has grown quite tall, hasn’t he?

At least half-a-foot taller, judging from where her eyes rest on the hollow of his neck. Quite a bit taller than Ron, really.

Who would have thought?

Hermione leads him back to the kitchen and retrieves the little stoneware jar with the cork top from the counter, where it was trying to disappear behind a bushy fern.

“Here,” she says, “the tea you bought.”

“Ah,” Neville says again. “Well.”

“Oh?”

“Ahhhh,” says Neville. “You see…”

“I see tea,” she prods.

“No, well. The thing is, you see not-tea.”

“Not-tea?” she asks, and her voice is really getting quite shrill.

“Yes, not-tea,” nods Neville, setting the stoneware jar down on the stone counter with an ominous _tink_. “Very much not-tea. Lichen, really.”

“Lichen?!”

Well, alright. That could be classified fairly as a shriek.

“Neville,” she says after taking a couple breaths. “Elaborate. Please.”

“Well,” he continues, shifting his gaze to and from her face repeatedly and rubbing at the base of his throat in a truly _most_ distracting manner. He hadn’t shaved when he washed up, and there’s just a hint of dark stubble shadowing his face, interrupted at intervals with thin, white scars. “It’s what my hosts called, um, something like ‘fire lichen’. Or perhaps, ‘heat moss.’”

“It blooms red and makes the taiga look like it’s on fire?” she tries. He was just telling her about fire _weed_ , which he had mentioned _was_ prepared as a tisane.

“No- _ooo_ ,” he hedges.

“They used it to start fires,” she guesses hopelessly.

“Um, _no_ ,” Neville replies definitively. “Well, not, you know, _fire_ fires. On wood or dung. More of a figurative fire. A metaphorical fire, if you will.”

“Oh, no,” says Hermione. It comes out perhaps a bit breathy but, well. It’s very _hot_. She notices she’s been flapping the hem of her skirt to circulate a bit of air up _there_. The tops of her thighs are slick, and Hermione can feel a heated flush spread further across her cheeks.

“Oh, yes,” says Neville. Perhaps he was aiming for grim, but a better adjective would probably be _husky_. His eyes are trained at the ground, she thinks, until she realizes that they’re trained on the hem of her skirt.

 _Oh_.

“Let me guess,” she says after she clasps her hands firmly behind her back. “You thought this fire lichen might be helpful in… _stimulating_ the…aged magical population?”

“The female population especially, yes, although it appears to be effective for people of all ages. _Ahem_ ,” he clears his throat and scrubs a hand through his hair. “I was told that grinding it and smoking it like pipe tobacco is the preferred preparation to prolong male, ah…endurance.”

“I see,” she says and shifts her weight from one leg to the other. The ribbed tops of her socks catch at one another, an unneeded reminder of the fluttery feeling in her core.

She drags her gaze away from where Neville’s left thumb is rubbing across his bottom lip and tracks his gaze down to her…bosom? Breasts? The cream knit of her jumper has outlined her chest quite provocatively regardless of what she chooses to call her tits, and she realizes that clasping her hands behind her back has only exacerbated the, erm…effect. And Neville’s gaze has its own impact, contracting the tips of her breasts until her nipples show clearly through the layers of brassiere and jumper.

“Is that,” she clears her throat, trying to keep things friendly. Scholarly. _Academic_. “Is that how fire lichen is usually, ah, applied? Ingested?”

“I understand,” says Neville, “that post-menopausal witches traditionally mix it with rendered seal fat for a targeted, erm, topical application.”

 _“_ Ah,” she replies and then thinks, _oh…_

“Ew,” slips out before she can contain it.

“Oh, yes. Definitely ew.” The thought seems to do Neville some good, and he finally tears his eyes away from her tits to meet her gaze. Hermione can see that his pupils are blown wide in, well, _arousal_ , and she notes how the flush from his cheeks has also spread down his neck a bit and is it her, or do his lips look plumper? “Drinking it as a steeped beverage is uncommon, given it’s found all over the taiga. No need to concentrate or extract the active properties with steeping. Also, it tastes pretty terrible.”

“Agreed,” she says to cover for how entrancing she finds the shapes his mouth makes. “It _does_ taste terrible.”

“A truly terrible tasting tea,” Neville laughs and somehow that is just the _funniest_ thing Hermione has heard in ages and she finds herself giggling like a fifteen-year-old Lav-Lav.

“Oh, Merlin, Hermione,” says Neville when they’ve both recovered a bit of their sanity. “I’m _so sorry_.”

“No, no,” she reassures. “I should know better than to go around serving unlabeled steeped leaves – lichens – in an Herbologist’s home. Thank the Founders it’s just the two of us. Imagine if Professors McGonagall and Sprout had decided to catch up today!”

“Oh, lords and ladies. I’d rather not,” replies Neville and Hermione smiles back at his abashed grin. “Puberty was awkward enough under McGonagall’s eagle eye.”

And that sends them both into giggles again.

“Oh!” says Hermione after she’s wiped a couple of tears from her eyes. The, um, _heat_ , has abated a bit after all the giggling. Not that her nipples aren’t still doing their best to poke an eye out, or that her knickers aren’t soaked through. But the immediacy of her arousal has let off a bit.

“Nev,” she continues. “I’ve had a thought. This, ah, fire lichen. I understand it’s relatively unstudied?”

“Pretty much unknown in Western Europe, at least,” he affirms, “Although obviously quite common across the Eurasian Arctic traditional wizarding cultures.”

“Isn’t it fascinating how Euro-centric our magical culture is given the relative equality in power dynamics amongst wizarding folk?” says Hermione. “But I digress. I imagine you want to study its impact, then?”

“Yes,” murmurs Neville before clearing his throat. “Yes, that was my general idea. I brought back several jars of the stuff in various preparations and harvested at different periods to test its, um, impact. Effectiveness. Pharmacological whatsits. Applications.”

“Indeed,” she hums.

After a moment, her brain turns back on and she claps her hands decisively. “Well, we might as well make hay, as they say.”

Neville makes a hilarious little strangling sound as she heads back into the sitting room. She can feel him trailing behind her and if she walks with a looser, swaying gait, _well_. She is currently under the influence of an aphrodisiac.

She resumes her seat on the sofa and fishes out one of the indexaskins, happy to sacrifice it to the cause. What better use for a self-indexing notebook than research? _Ground-breaking_ research.

She pauses when she sees it’s the one that says _Shopping list: Decent tea for N!_ and then flips the page and continues. It’s only right. At the top, she writes neatly if a bit more hastily than normal:

 

> _Fire Lichen, Trial 1_
> 
> _Application: 3TSP, 3 C boiled water, steeped approx. 4.30min_
> 
> _Dosage:_

“How many cups would you say you had? I think I had…three. But your teacups aren’t 8 ounces are they? Lord, I wish wizards used the metric system. Maybe six? But I had quite a bit of milk…Did you ever hear anything about milk or sugar affecting the potency?” If she focuses hard enough, they can surely get through this.

“Ah,” replies Neville. His eyes are glued to her left hand, which she realizes is tracing the length of her curls down her neck and across her bust. Oops.

“Mm,” he clears his throat and stares hard over her shoulder. Hermione spits out her lip, realizing she’s caught it between her teeth. “No, I never heard anything about using it as a tea. Mostly, it was smoked. I remember it being added to the main fire on the full moon, but that was more of a traditional practice than an attempt to induce, erm, tribe-wide arousal.” Neville shifts again, rubbing his hand down his thighs and leans forward a bit to rest his elbows on his knees. Hermione realizes that the swell at his waist is not the roll of a zipper ( _of course not – wizarding tailors are still stuck on button flies, you numpty_ , she thinks) but rather Neville’s erection.

Merlin, she’s staring at _Neville’s cock_.

“The paste I mentioned,” he continues, “does have some honey in it, as I recall, but given that honey is considerably more rare than fire lichen, the proportions are probably not equivalent.”

“Interesting,” Hermione breathes. It looks, well. Nice. Penis-like. Proportional. _Hard._ Although she won’t be able to really _know_ until she sees for herself, will she?

“Yes,” replies Neville.

It would still be research, after all. Not publishable research, for sure. But important, nevertheless.

“Neville,” says Hermione. “Did you ever get around to asking out Hannah Abbott?”

“Ha—? Hannah?” Neville has traced her gaze down to his lap and, well, _hard_ doesn’t seem like a sufficient adjective anymore. _Erect_ is very clinical, although she _should_ be taking notes right now.

For Neville’s research. Her own notes will have to go into a different journal.

 _Erections_ , she scrawls under a heading that could be _Side effects in adult males_. After a moment in thought, she adds a heading called _Side effects in adult females_ and then a bullet list that includes _lubrication, increased blood flow to ergo zones,_ and _difficulty think_.

And then she writes, _Down desires. Lower inhibition???_

And then, _HOT._

“N-no,” says Neville.

 _Excellent_ , she thinks.

Hermione sets aside the delightful new indexaskin and reaches behind her neck while Neville continues.

“No, I thought I’d best wait until I got back. Hard to get a new relationship off the ground when you go away directly afterwards, you know.”

“Yes,” she says from experience. “I know.”

She set the zipper on this particular jumper the _first time_ , which she was extremely proud of. Right now, though, she’s just pleased that she went through the trouble of getting the zipper and sewing it into the fine alpaca-cashmere knit. Because as she reaches behind her neck to slip the slider down the teeth, Neville’s eyes are glued firmly to her tits. And when she reaches back down to pull up the hem, it’s Neville who’s caught his lower lip in his mouth and Jesus _fuck_ she’s wet almost to her socks and it’s so hot and she’s so ready to be _filled_.

Her bra is a full-cupped, beige, back-clasping affair with a band that promises to eliminate ‘unsightly back bulge.’ She wore it particularly because this jumper clings to every swell and dip of her torso. And there’re the scars, of course. Nasty and red, wrapping her arm and torso.

Perhaps it’s the fire lichen, making him look at her the way he is, making her feel like she’s _desirable_ and _sexy_ , not just a bossy, scarred up bookworm.

Whatever it is, Neville seems to like what he sees, because he leans back into the arm of the couch and runs one of his hands over that lovely, rising, twitching bulge.

“ _Hermione_ ,” he says. “Merlin, Hermione, _fuck.”_

She pulls both legs underneath her and rises to her knees on the old, soft cushion so that the hem of her skirt just barely brushes the leather of the seat. And then she reaches behind and releases each hook of the bra band and then tosses it carelessly to the ground.

It’s _so hot_ , and Neville is still dressed.

“Neville,” she croons. “Can I kiss you?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says like he’s waking up. “Wait, Hermione. Waitwaitwait—” and his lovely cool hands with his knobby wrists are on each one of her shoulders. “Hermione, this is the tea. You don’t want this,” he gets out in a strangled voice.

“Oh, Nev,” she replies, and walks forward on her knees and reaches down to her waistband. “Don’t be ridiculous. I used to wank to the thought of you in the Prefect’s bath.”

“ _What?_ ” croaks Neville.

To be fair, she used to masturbate to the thought of pretty much everyone in the Prefect’s bath that last year at Hogwarts. She and Ron weren’t together, and something about the abrupt release of the stress and impending doom had sent her and everyone else’s libido sky-high. So she masturbated, a lot. It was very therapeutic.

But if she had known that Neville looked like this when he was aroused, would look at _her_ like this, she would have featured him more prominently in her fantasies. Or perhaps they could have come together to relieve one another’s stress.

Absently, Hermione thinks she should probably add something like _confess desires_ in the research notes.

“Ron,” says Neville, even though she’s unbuttoned the waistband of her skirt and the back placket has loosened and it’s now pooled about her knees.

“Ron’s not in the picture,” she says. “We’ve been trying to re-date…no, that’s not right,” and she sits back on her heels to think about it, absently reaching up to secure her hair into a ponytail. Neville isn’t expecting the movement and his hands slip from her shoulders halfway down her chest and, _well_ , she can’t really be blamed for shifting back up just a bit so his rough palms are cupping the weight of her breasts. Can she?

“We broke up when I went to back to school, and then we stayed broken up this past year because I wanted to concentrate on my first year at work and develop my five-year plan, and we haven’t, you know, gotten back together since.”

“But,” protests Neville, and Hermione smiles and rolls her head back as his hands firmly caress her breasts. “Isn’t it, you know, him? It’s going to be him.” And then, incredibly, he’s pulled his hands away even though she’s sitting here on his couch in her knickers and thigh-high socks _literally_ _putting her tits in his hands_.

“Neville,” she says in her firmest, swottiest voice. “I want to have sex with you. Right now. Here, in your house. Your stupid plant has made me unbelievably horny but _I_ am choosing to come onto you. Now, please, _please_ will you _please have sex with me?_ ”

“Merlin,” Neville moans, “ _yesss.”_

“Oh, thank you, lord,” says Hermione, and walks on her knees over to his lap to help him pull his stupid linen shirt over his head.

He _does_ have a lovely patch of fine, dark hair lightly furring his chest, and it _does_ narrow into a delightful little trail that disappears beneath the waist of his wide-wale corduroys. Neville’s head comes free from his shirt and she’s got her mouth on his _finally_. One of his hands comes between her and the back of the sofa to squeeze her arse and the other is cupping her breast in his palm and thumbing her nipple _just so_.

“ _Oh_ , Neville,” she says as she comes up for air and his gorgeous, hot, wet, wonderful mouth starts pulling at her neck and skimming up its length to take her earlobe into his mouth. The sucking is unbearably erotic, but the feeling of his hot tongue dipping just into the shell of her ear has her unexpectedly grinding down into his lap. It’s like he’s found a shortcut straight to her cunt, and she’s so _empty_ there and his cock is _so hard_ beneath his trousers and she wants nothing more than for Neville to fill her up with him and never, ever leave her feeling this hollow again.

Both of his hands have come down to her hips now. One long-fingered hand wraps around the crease of her arse and rubs firmly into her cleft, and the other grasps her hip to drag her in round, grinding circles over his lap.

His head is pressed to the side of hers now, and he whispers with hot breaths right into the shell of her ear, “Hermione, I’m _so fucking hard_. Are you wet for me, Hermione? Will you let me feel?”

“ _Yes_ ,” she moans. “ _Please_ , Neville. I want your cock. I want your mouth.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says. “Stand up, sweetheart.”

Neville pushes her off his lap, hands still on her hips, and she has to lean over him with her arm braced on the back of the sofa to stay upright on her wobbly knees. Her head is spinning, but she watches Neville’s gaze trace the path of his hands as they pull her sensible black cotton knickers ( _not_ pantalets – Muggles have much better undergarments) down her legs. Watches his hands wrap around the top of her socks, meets his eyes when he looks up at her in question.

She smiles and says, “Did you know that Muggles have studied women’s orgasms and determined they come more easily and frequently when their feet are warm? They recommend women have sex with socks on.”

Neville smiles up at her hazily and replies, “Those Muggles sure have their priorities straight.”

Hermione laughs and pushes her hips back out of his grasp, straightening her arms and bringing her head down level with Neville’s so she can catch his lips with hers. After a minute, she ducks away and says daringly, “Feel how wet I am, Nev.”

Neville lets out a grinding groan that makes her entire pussy clench and he reaches out to pull her hips towards him again. She has to prop one knee on the seat, which opens up her core to the warm air and brings her torso, yes, just close enough. His mouth latches onto her nipple and sucks. And then his long, strong fingers are petting her damp curls and curling into her slick folds and Hermione can’t help grinding down into his palm.

Neville groans into her breast, which is only fair because Hermione is moaning up at the ceiling, her brain short-circuited and incoherent.

“That feels so _good_ , Neville.” It’s like her entire vocabulary has been reduced to a handful of words, and they’re either pleas or praise.

Hermione cocks her hips a bit and breathes “ _There”_ when his parted fingers catch over her clit and then she’s got him rubbing _just right_. He’s burrowed his head between her tits and she can _feel_ his heaving breaths and the prickle of his scruff pressing into her. His other hand has reached all the way around her bum to slide a long, calloused finger into her _deep_ and she can finally squeeze down around something, so she does.

It’s so good and all she can think of is _yes_ and _more_ , so she tells him that and then Neville says, “You’re _soaking_ , love. Are you going to come, Hermione? Will you come for me?” and she thinks _yes._

 _“Neville,_ ” she moans, “yesss.”

Her entire lower half pulls in and down. Neville keeps pace even as she starts swiveling her hips wildly and then she’s coming all over his hands and half-collapsing onto his chest.

Hermione is goo. Just loose limbs and sweat-slick skin and a swollen, tender cunt. That’s it.

It’s _wonderful_.

Neville’s hands are petting her back in long, sure strokes and Hermione pulls her other knee up onto the couch so she’s straddling hip lap like a little frog (a _toad_ , she jokes to herself) and she nuzzles into the hollow where his neck meets his chest. She wraps her arms up behind each shoulder and squeezes him a blissed-out hug.

“Good, huh?” he jokes, but she can hear the need for reassurance.

“Mmmm-hmmmmmm,” she hums into his neck, and then clarifies. “So good. The best.”

“The best, hey?” he replies, and she can’t respond because her nerves are still misfiring and she’s high on endorphins.

Neville keeps petting her and she could stay like this forever, but she can feel his erection pressing up underneath her belly and, well, it’s not like she’s no longer aroused. The fire’s just been banked a bit, is all.

She picks her head up from his neck and unwinds her arms from around his back, rising up a bit to catch his mouth is a long, slow kiss full of wet tongue and increasingly heavy breathing. She pulls back at last, tugging at his lower lip with her mouth until it pops free and then she meets his eyes and smiles.

“Your turn, I think,” she says with extra confidence because she’s only done this a few times and a bit of sass helps sell it. And then she slides down his lap so her socked knees dig into his nice wool rug and she starts unbuttoning the fly on his trousers.

“ _Shit_ ,” he hisses as she lightly rubs the heel of her palm up his covered length. There are entirely too many fiddly buttons to undo ( _six_ , her mind counts), but now she can see his cock pressing up against the thin fabric of his pants. She has to swat his hand away from the tangled drawstring, both of them too impatient to deal with complicated knots and bows.

Honestly, wizarding tailors really needed to invest some time into mimicking the properties of Muggles elastics.

“I’m buying you some proper boxers,” she says after she finally gets the cord undone. “It’s going to change your life. Now up,” she instructs and his hips pop up and she pulls his trousers and pants down all in one go.

She could probably find a spell for lubricant in a book (and wouldn’t _that_ be an awkward Flourish  & Blott’s purchase) but she’ll have to settle for some good old saliva today. She lets the wetness in her mouth pool a bit, transfers it in a long lick to her right palm, and then she takes Neville’s cock in hand.

“I’m pretty sure you’ve already changed – _oh, Merlin,_ ” he interrupts himself as she strokes down.

She’s only ever had sex with Ron before, and never in full daylight. It could be the fire lichen, but she finds the sight of Neville spread out before her positively _entrancing._ He’s got his head hanging over the back of the couch, his chest rising in heaving breaths. One arm is tensed top the back of the sofa, hand fisted. The other strokes slowly over the taut skin of his stomach, not _quite_ interfering with her work but hovering just above his groin. And she sees that she was right – that delightful little trail of hair broadens as it descends to become a neatly-groomed patch that contrasts beautifully against his cock.

Funny how she used to think cocks were so ugly. They’re _not_. In fact, Neville’s is perfectly appealing.

It’s flushed a dark reddish-plum color she refuses to call _puce_ (what a hideous word), and rises to curve up out of his lap in a long, thick length that will feel _so good_ inside her. His foreskin is intact, covering up his head, and that’s different. So she satiates her curiosity on her next downstroke and dips her head to take him into her mouth and wraps her tongue around it.

“ _Shhhhhit_ ,” Neville hisses and it must feel good because he makes a little involuntary pump of his hips.

Hermione confirms her suspicions, looking up at his face to catch him looking down at her. His pupils are _huge_ , blocking out any trace of hazel and his mouth is half open. He reaches down to gently palm the base of her skull, and the sweetness of his gesture makes her happy so she hums a bit around his cock and quirks her lips up in a smile. Sure, he tastes a bit funny down here but it’s certainly better than the terrible tea. Besides, Neville’s drawn-out groan and blissful expression make it entirely worth the trouble.

Hermione starts bobbing up and down his length and Neville’s hand comes away to play haphazardly with her hair. It takes her a couple strokes before she settles on a technique, but soon she has her mouth and her palm sliding up and down in tandem and isn’t it convenient that her mouth keeps everything so slick?

His head keeps falling back and popping up, clearly unable to decide whether he enjoys the sight of her sucking his cock more than just the pure feeling of it.

It’s adorable.

Her jaw does get a bit sore, though, so she pulls off with a nice loud _pop_. She runs her lips down the side of his length in a long, wet open-mouthed kiss so she can trace the veins running down his cock to the base, which she tongues in slow, flat licks that have him cussing and crushing the puff of her ponytail in his hand. She flicks her eyes up to check on him and sees he has his other hand up over his head, grabbing at his own hair.

The sight has her shifting on her knees, rubbing her thighs together to get a bit of relief from her needy pussy. She can feel his shin right there, though, so she straddles his leg and rocks her pelvis up against the hard bone and that feels surprisingly satisfying.

Her hand is still pumping his shaft in long, sure strokes but now that she has her face buried in his groin, it only makes sense to explore his testicles. They’re hanging down between his legs and hormones are very weird because she’s intrigued by the thought of wrapping her mouth around these ugly things and seeing how Neville likes it.

He does. Quite a bit.

He spreads his legs enough that she can slip her free hand underneath to cup them and bring her lips down so she can cover them in saliva, too. And when she pulls one gently into her mouth and rolls her tongue around it experimentally, Neville lets out a wordless shout and jackknives forward to join his hands behind her head and hold her there for a moment.

“Sorry,” he says, “sorry, sorry. _Fuck_ that feels good.”

“Oh, good,” she replies when he frees his hands from her hair. She takes his hand resting atop his thigh and sucks his index finger into her mouth, meeting his intent gaze. The way he’s looking at her, she feels like a love goddess. Like she has this unlimited power to make him do whatever she likes, feel better than he ever has before. And perhaps she has a bit of an oral fixation because giving Neville head is incredibly arousing and she wants to keep sucking on bits of him.

“Neville,” she asks when she lets his finger slide out of her mouth, “can I massage your prostate?”

“Oh, _uhn!_ Sure, yes. Whatever you like,” he replies as she rolls his balls in her palm.

But it turns out that perhaps he doesn’t know what he’s agreed to. Hermione dips her middle finger into her own heat to slicks it up and then watches as it disappears inside him. It’s the sexiest thing she’s ever seen but Neville lets out another shout and tenses his thighs. Hermione stops immediately, meeting his surprised gaze, and asks, “Want me to stop?”

“I—” replies Neville, “I – maybe?”

“Just let me…” she trails off and crooks her finger a bit and gently rocks it inside him and then Neville’s eyes go completely unfocused and his mouth drops in bliss.

“Merciful Morrigan,” he says and then Hermione catches his bobbing cockhead with her mouth and sucks and then she can feel his testicles tightening, pulling up like he’s going to come.

“I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming,” he chants.

Only she really, really wants Neville to fuck her.

So she does something truly awful and selfish.

She lets his cock pull free of her mouth, slips her finger out of him, and tugs down gently on his bollocks. And then she grabs his wrists and leans back so that’s the only contact between her body and his.

“Oh,” cries Neville. “Oh, _fuck_.”

And his cock twitches and jerks and just a little dribble of semen comes out and trails down his upright length. Neville’s entire body is tensed hard with a full-body contraction and his hands are fisted, and he makes the most terrible, gasping groan.

“Oh, _fuck_ what was that?!” he asks hoarsely.

It’s hotter than watching her finger disappear up his bum.

It’s the sexiest goddamn thing in the world.

It’s so hot she realizes that she’s let go of his wrists and has a hand shoved between her legs, rubbing furiously at her clit and _that’s_ certainly not fair so she pulls it free and rests it on Neville’s knee instead.

“Sorry,” she says, and drops a little kiss on his thigh, contrite but not really.

“You’re sorry?” pants Neville, staring at her and she can see his mind is still processing. It’s so hot that he can’t even think right now. “I don’t even…what happened?”

“I ruined it,” she replies and drops another little kiss just above his knee. “Your orgasm. I’m sorry, I was selfish.”

“Selfish,” he repeats. “ _Fuck,”_ he says and drops his head to rest over the back of the couch. “It was like I came, but I didn’t. _Fuck_ , I’m still hard.” He pops his head back up, meeting her eyes, and his are still hot and bewildered.

Hermione should probably feel really terrible, but she’s just too aroused right now to feel anything other than needy. And hearing all these filthy things come out of sweet little Neville’s mouth isn’t helping.

“I’ll make it up to you,” she promises instead, and can’t help the way her pelvis is rocking against his leg. “Let’s go upstairs and then we can have sex any way you like,” she says. “Well, almost anything. We can discuss.”

Neville stares at her blankly, reaching down to touch his penis and then snatching his hand away as it jumps from the contact. “Shit, I need a minute. _Fuck_.”

“Whatever you like,” she says and she really should be feeling very, very bad.

Neville lays sprawled out over his sofa for several minutes and Hermione is starting to feel truly regretful, so she pillows her head on one of his strong thighs and absently pets the other.

He catches that hand after some time and pulls it to his face, inspecting the pink-polished fingers and giving them a sniff. Hermione meets his gaze as he pulls her fingers into his mouth and can’t help the little gasp she lets out.

“You were touching yourself,” he says when he lets her fingers slip free and oh, _god_ , that’s hot. “Did you come whilst you were sucking me off?”

This is surely one of the most erotic moments of her life. The filthy words, the see-saw between mindless arousal and having total control of her partner, the unexpected satisfaction she feels kneeling here at his feet right after she blew his mind…

“N—” she gets out before swallowing and continuing. “No, it wasn’t fair. I stopped.”

“Good,” says Neville. “Stand up and gather your things.”

“Okay,” she gets out and she grabs her bra and her jumper and her skirt. It’s only fair – she really was very selfish. She doesn’t deserve to be fucked right now.

“Good girl. Now,” says Neville. “Go upstairs.”

 _Thank you, I’m sorry, thank you_ , she thinks again and again and she walks up the old wooden staircase in her stockinged feet.

Neville follows a couple steps behind. When she pauses at the landing, she feels him come up behind her and palm her bum with both hands. She nearly drops her things in her eagerness to lean back heavily into the contact.

“Door on the left,” he murmurs into her ear and sucks her earlobe back into his mouth again and it’s all she can do to stay upright.

She doesn’t move until he steps back and releases her ear, stuck in an erotic fugue. But then Neville gives a sharp _smack_ to her bum and she lurches forward on unsteady legs.

She can feel her arse tingling where his palm cracked against it and oh, lord, that feels nice.

She gets to the door but it’s got a round brass handle and she can’t twist it open with her things in her hands and she _can’t think_ , but then Neville reaches around and gets it, pushing open the door to his room.

It’s a very nice room. Lots of plants. A bit chilly from the open windows. A bed. She’ll register more of it later, she’s sure.

“You can put your things on the trunk,” he murmurs and closes the door behind them and she steps forward and drops her clothes in a heap. Normally, she’d fold them neatly but she’s not sure she has the coordination for it right now.

“Hermione,” Neville says when she turns back around and finds him right there. In front of her. Naked, and very aroused. “Hermione, I would very much like to fuck you now.”

 _So this is what it feels like_ , she thinks, and says, “Neville, please. Yes, please.”

“Good girl,” he replies and then he must have picked her up and tossed her into the middle of the bed because she’s airborne for a second before she lands on his white duvet. But it’s alright, because he’s kind of leaped over the trunk and swarmed up after her and she’s just smothered in warm skin and heavy muscle and it’s the most delicious feeling.

“Nev—” she gets out, but he catches her mouth with his and grabs her leg at the knee and pulls her wide open so he can settle his groin flush to hers. She wraps the other leg likewise around him so she’s clutching him tight to her wet heat, and then twines one arm around his back to grab his arse. It’s a heavy, muscular thing in her hand, twitching and firm and she gives him a good squeeze while she rolls her hips underneath his.

Neville chuckles into her mouth and it’s not _funny_. She needs him, she needs him in her _now_.

“Please,” she whines incoherently because his mouth is still glued to hers.

Neville shifts a bit, grabbing the arm she’s trying to slip down to her empty, needy cunt and pinning it above her head, leaning his weight on his elbow.

“No,” he replies. “Not yet. You said you’d do anything I want.”

 _“Almost_ anything,” she retorts and Neville laughs.

“Merlin, I love how bossy you get,” he grins at her and then rolls his hips so that his cock slips between the lips of her vulva. She can feel it getting covered with her cream, moving more smoothly with each pass.

“Neville, please. _Please_ ,” she whines and digs the heel of her free hand into the flesh of his bum to hurry him up.

“No, love. Not yet. Fair’s fair.”

Between his weight and her reluctance to unwrap her legs, there’s not much of anyplace she can go so she has to lay there and bear Neville’s torture. She can’t even get much movement out of wiggling her hips because he’s folded his legs up underneath her hips and trapped her pelvis firmly to his.

Luckily, he seems pretty content to keep his cock between her legs. With every pass, his length drags over her clit and it’s _so good_ and also _awful_ because she could come right now only she _can’t_.

His mouth is all over, pulling at her lips and sucking on her ears and dragging the tips of his teeth down her neck to feast on her breasts. It’s wonderful and terrible, especially when he reaches down and retrieves her hand to trap it next to the other one. Now she only has her mouth free to do anything, except that there’s nothing for it to _do_ and it’s empty and her pussy is empty and “Please, Neville, please. Please fill me up. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please,” she begs.

Neville ducks down and catches her mouth again, _finally_ , and then he pulls back and says. “Do you feel bad about what you did?” he asks.

“Yes, so bad,” she cries.

“Are you sorry?” he asks again, nipping at her neck.

“So sorry,” she whines.

“ _Liar_ ,” he huffs in laughter, and swivels his hips and she _can’t think_. “Do you promise to do it again?”

“Yes, please, anything. Yes, yes, yes,” she chants because _Christ_ , he’s lined up his cock with her entrance and is pushing in and, _ohhhh_.

He’s girthy enough that she feels the smooth ring of flesh stretch and give beneath his pressure, but she’s so swollen and wet that he pops in and then drives deep in a single, slow push.

“ _Shhhhit_ ,” she calls. “Yes, oh Neville. Yes, yes, yes.”

“‘ _Mione_ ,” he whispers into her hair, pressing down heavily with his entire body so she’s just covered all over with his heat and his weight and she’s _so full_ and she can’t think a single thought except to say,

“ _Please_ …”

It’s alright, though, because his shallow thrusts are filling her up again and again and dragging at her sensitive entrance and that patch of hair on his groin is grinding _just right_ onto the hood of her clit and the jut of his pelvis is digging into the top of her mons and,

“Oh, I’m coming,” she tells him again and again.

Neville is so good, so _kind_ , so much better than her because he lets her come and fucks her steadily through each spasm and all she can hear is the harsh rush of his breathing in her ear and he’s finally let go of her wrists so she can clutch at his back as her entire body clenches up and releases in long waves of bliss.

“Neville,” she says and mouths him blindly until he presses his lips to hers so she can suck greedily at him. She has to thank him with actions because her words have all gone and her vision is whited out and her body is just one twitching nerve.

There isn’t time to rest, though. There’s just barely enough to get her sight back.

Neville only spares her that much time before he props himself up on his arms, and then pushes upright so she’s lying in his lap with her hips pulled tight to his.

“Give me your hand,” he grinds out and doesn’t he realize that her arms are noodles?

But she manages to hand him her left, and he uses it to lever her torso upright so she’s sitting in his lap with her legs spread obscenely wide across his and she can barely keep herself upright, recovering as she is.

“Good girl,” he murmurs right into her ear and she _is_ a good girl, so she wiggles her hips and shudders from the onslaught of sensation as her swollen cunt drags over his cock.

His big calloused hands have wrapped around her hips, and she tilts her head down to watch as his veined arms start rocking her up and down and his cock disappears _inside her_. It’s like she weighs nothing, like she’s a little doll, because he’s the one moving her up and down and her legs certainly aren’t capable of helping right now.

Except, they are, a bit. She starts pushing and pulling, too, with the muscles in her thighs and arse and calves and she has to wind her arms around his neck to keep her balance as his hands guide her movements up and down.

This time, the strokes are long. They’re long and deep enough that his head pops free of her a couple times before their rhythms marry up, making her keen from loss and reach down to put him back where he belongs.

“So good,” she tells him as they settle into the rhythm and his back starts beading up in sweat underneath her palms. “Neville, you’re so good.”

Neville blows out a heavy breath and his movements get a bit stronger, shoving her down and onto his cock. It’s almost too much, so she adds a swivel on the downstroke and suddenly she’s seeing stars again. Her words haven’t gone yet, though, because she can hear herself saying:

“Neville, I’m coming again. I’m going to come all over your cock. You fill me up so good, so full. You feel so good, Neville. Are you going to come, Nev? Will you come inside me? I want you to. Please, please come in me.”

“I’m going to fill you up,” he promises back, and he’s thrusting up hard into her now and he’s in control and she’s just along for the ride. “Got to punish you for what you did. Got to punish your cunt.”

“Yes,” she breathes into his ear, sucking on his earlobe and giving it a little nip. “That’s right, Neville. Punish me. Please come in me. Please, I need it. I need you.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” he shouts and rolls them onto her back and he’s pushing fiercely into her over and over and she can feel the hot spurts of his come as he fills her up and it’s _so good_.

She can’t help wrapping her legs around him, bearing down around his length, contracting every muscle in her lower abdomen _hard_ so that she can feel his come slide out just a bit. That feeling and the idea of it does _something_ , trips a wire in her brain, and she’s suddenly coming in a full-body contraction all over his cock.

They lay like that for a long time, Neville still fully seated in her and the breeze from the open window chilling the sheen of sweat covering their bodies. She’s got her legs around his waist, her arms around his back, clutching him in an octopus hug. Neville’s still hunched over her, but boneless this time. He’s a deadweight pressing her into the sweat and come-soaked bedding and it’s perhaps a bit hard to breathe but she wouldn’t change a thing.

In fact, she lets out a soft _noooo_ when he shifts and pulls out, rolling them both over so she’s lying atop him and he’s moved off the wet spot. She can stretch her legs out straight now, so she pushes her knees out from under her and points her toes in a full-body stretch. She can feel their juices running out of her, making him and the bed all messy, but she can’t muster up the energy to care.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he says. “I had to. It’s too much.”

“It was perfect,” she mumbles into his chest.

“You’re right,” he replies and strokes a damp palm down her cooling back. “It was.”

And she can’t help shifting to the side so she’s tucked up right underneath his arm and her leg is thrown over his and she falls asleep right there.

 

.:.

 

“Hermione, shift over, love. There you go.” She vaguely registers Neville’s voice as she reluctantly rolls to her side. There’s something warm and wet between her legs, and she sleepily widens her knees so he can wipe her clean with a washcloth.

“It’s cold,” she complains, but then he’s guiding her under the covers and tucking the duvet over her shoulders and it’s toasty warm.

“Where are you going?” she asks her pillow, when she hears him rustling around.

“Got to let the dog out. I’ll be right back – go back to sleep.” He whispers back.

“Mmmk,” she mumbles, and dozes lightly until she feels him return to bed and crawl in next to her. “You’re back,” she tells him as she torques her hips to get comfortable. The cold air rushes into her pocket of heat under the covers, and his skin is chill against hers as she settles in next to him. “Good.”

“Goodnight, Hermione,” Neville says, and she feels him kiss her forehead.

“‘Night, Nev,” she replies and touches her lips to his collarbone in an open-mouthed kiss. “Sweet dreams.”


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut, humor, and feels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's tagged, but discussion of miscarriage lies below. I hope I've treated it as sensitively as it deserves, because it's a hell of a thing that's caused a lot of pain and heartache for so many women, their partners, and their families. My best wishes to all of those reading this hoping to become pregnant, and my condolences to all of those who have lost yours.

Her body clock is set to wake her at 6:15am, which is well before sunrise this far north.

Hermione wakes and finds herself facing a sleeping Neville. His room is dark and lit only by the starlight and the quarter moon. She always forgets how _dark_ the wizarding world is. Outside of large settlements like Diagon Alley, most wizarding homes are secluded from their neighbors. Neville’s cottage lies on the outskirts of Hogsmeade, and his bedroom faces his greenhouses and the empty Highlands beyond. With no streetlights or electronics to illuminate the room, his face is only barely highlighted by the silvery starlight.

They’re facing one another, arms tucked up in front of them. Her right hand is clasped loosely over his bare forearm. She gently pulls back and slowly, shifts her weight carefully until she can slip from the edge of the bed. Her face is sticky with a day’s accumulated grime, and her mouth is sour. She’s also dreadfully thirsty and has the pressing need to pee.

Neville doesn’t wake, and no wonder.

Her socked feet touch the bare boards of the floor, and she’s glad she’s still wearing them because she can feel the chill even through the wool. Neville’s house is too old to have an ensuite, so she has to pick her way around the bed and over the dog sprawled out over half the floor.

“Woof,” barks the dog drowsily as she threads her feet between its absurdly long legs.

“Shhhh,” she tells it, “go back to sleep.”

The dog drops its head back to the floor with a _thunk_ and lets out an excruciatingly long and loud groan. Hermione freezes for a panicked moment. But no sound comes from the bed, so she makes her way out the door and finds the washroom two doors down the hall.

She casts a dim light wandlessly, just enough to illuminate the fixtures. The bodily functions are satisfied in short order and Neville even has a glass for water sitting on the windowsill. She sucks down two full cups greedily before scrubbing her teeth with a toothpaste-covered finger and rinsing her face with warm water.

Then, she stares at herself in the mirror for a good long while. In the blueish light, she looks a fright. Her hair has reverted to its prepubescent cloud of carded wool, no curl left unraveled. She pulls out the hair tie with difficulty, then wets it down and plaits it firmly. She wipes at her undereyes with a damp tissue to clean up a bit of the raccoon look and decides that’s as good as it’s going to get without her wand. Which is…somewhere.

Downstairs, maybe? The kitchen?

She heads back to the hallway and pauses. Should she get it? Would it be more awkward or less to have all her things gathered and stacked neatly when Neville wakes up?

She stands there dithering. Neville made her carry up her clothes last night, so she’ll have to go back to his room regardless. She might as well go back to the warm bed until he wakes up, because she’s certainly not going to disappear in the night like a one-night stand and also there isn’t any tea – _real_ tea – to keep her occupied downstairs until he wakes.

The cold makes up her mind for her, and she’s soon padding back into his room and closing the door softly behind her and picking her way back through the tangle of the dog’s legs. She drops her weight carefully, slowly back onto the mattress and threads her body one limb at a time under the covers.

 _Mustn’t wake Neville,_ she thinks to herself.

So she just about leaps out of her skin when he lets out a sleepy sigh and says, “Hi.”

“Hey,” she replies softly after her breath comes back. “Sorry I woke you.”

“S’ok,” he mumbles as she settles fully under the duvet. “C’mere,” he adds, and then he’s pulling at her hip until she’s rolled over and settled into the curve of his body. Her bare arse is pressing into his groin, her back flush with his chest, and his top arm comes around to rest atop her hip. “Brrr, you’re cold,” he says and wiggles a bit so they’re pressed even closer.

“Sorry,” she says again.

“Shhh, love. Go back to sleep,” he says into her braid and then she can feel his body go soft with sleep and the next thing she knows, it’s daylight.

 

.:.

 

“Good morning,” Neville mumbles into her hair.

She’s been dozing in the bright light from the window, only half-aware of the heat behind her.

“‘Morning,” she replies, and arches her back and feet to stretch the sleep from her bones. She rolls a hip forward out of the curve of his groin and hears an extremely satisfying series of pops as her joints crack. She can feel a low throb coming from her core, a mix of sore muscles and swollen flesh.

“Wow,” he comments and rubs a dry, calloused palm up from her hip to her shoulder, waking the skin beneath as it passes. “Nice.”

“Mmmm,” she replies and rolls back into the cradle of his body. “Your bed is nice.”

“It’s nicer with you in it,” he whispers in her ear and that gets a sleepy smile spreading across her lips, not that he can see.

“ _You’re_ nice,” she says and twists around to wrap her arm about his shoulder and tuck her leg between his.

“So I’ve been told,” he replies but there’s something wrong about his tone. It’s enough to make her open her eyes, tilting her head back to look at his face. His expression is…wrong. He shouldn’t look like that, not this morning especially when she’s still swollen and glowing with her post-coital high.

“Neville,” she says, but then pauses. She wiggles up the bed so her head is resting on a pillow so she can look him in the face and pet his chest. “I like nice. I like nice _a lot_. There is _nothing_ wrong with nice.”

“No, I know,” he replies and it’s not at all convincing.

But she doesn’t know what to say. Especially now, with her brain only half-on and the feeling of the crinkly hairs underneath her palm waking up bits of her she thought just a moment ago were quite satiated. Maybe that’s why she’s feeling daring enough to do this.

Then again, Neville’s always made her feel safe.

“Boys,” she says, and pushes at his shoulders so she can swing a leg over his torso. “Stop it,” she scolds his surprised face, and dips down to capture his lips with hers. So her mouth is a bit stale, and so is his, but she keeps kissing him until he’s kissing her back and by then their mouths are wet enough that it tastes fine.

She kisses him for a good long while, pinning his shoulders beneath her spread palms until he starts petting her back, running rough palms up her down and over her hips in the most delicious way and setting her whole body tingling.

“Your mouth is nice,” she tells him, leaning back and sitting up straight. “Your eyes are nice, and your smile, too. The way your hands feel is nice,” she says and grabs one and licks the palm and then sucks the end of his index finger into her mouth and gives it a little nip. “And your cock fits nicely inside me,” she adds, reaching around to give his half-hard penis a gentle tug. “You make me feel nice, all warm and cared for and appreciated. Talking to you is always nice, Neville, and _interesting,_ too. You never make me feel boring or ugly or shrewish. You’re _nice_ , Neville, and I quite like it.

“Do you understand?” she finishes, skimming her palms up and down his chest.

“I…yes?” he replies, wide-eyed and flushed and that’s nice, too.

She hums skeptically, flicking her thumb over one of his beaded nipples. He doesn’t react much, which is a pity, but he takes her offered thumb easily enough into his mouth and tongues it enthusiastically.

“No,” she says after taking a moment to enjoy the sensation. “I don’t think you do. I’ll show you,” and the hard length pressing up behind her gives her just the extra boost of confidence she needs to stand up on her knees and walk down his body until she can settle between his legs.

His cock is fully hard now and flushed red-pink with blood and Neville is looking down at her in wide-eyed amazement. Hermione likes that look quite a bit, so she drops a kiss to the soft skin at the crease of his hip and then runs her tongue up from the base of his cock to his head.

He tastes different from last night – he tastes like _her_ and _him_ , all mixed together, she realizes – and it’s not amazing or anything but the idea of it _is_. The idea is, in fact, so appealing that she forgets to let her saliva pool in her mouth before she starts, and so it takes quite a bit of licking before his cock is wet enough to let her hand and mouth slide easily along his length.

Not that Neville minds.

“Oh, fuck, that feels amazing,” he whispers into the hand he has pressed tightly to his mouth.

“Mmmmm,” she hums around his cock and smiles when his hips snap up. She pulls off him with a satisfying _pop_ and teases, “Doesn’t my mouth feel _nice_?”

“Yesssss,” he gets out in a choked voice as he watches her hand and mouth move in tandem up and down his length.

“You taste nice, too,” she lies to him when she pulls off and joins her left hand in the activities, rolling his balls in her palm. “You taste like me and you. I want to lick it all up,” which is the truth.

“Please, yes,” he begs, so she sets to it. She licks him all over, twisting her palm around in smooth motions on his cockhead to drive him crazy as she hunts out every square centimeter of skin and flavor. She has to take a break to gather enough saliva to coat his balls again, but by then Neville is making little involuntary pumps into her hand so that’s alright.

He’s almost keening now that she’s focused her efforts on his balls and his hand drops into her hair and pulls her off. “Stop, stop,” he pleads. “Too much.”

“You’re alright,” she assures him and kisses his palm and slows the motion of her hand.

“I—” he gets out but then his voice chokes off and his cheeks stain an adorable red. “Could you—?”

“Do you want me to finger you again?” she hopes.

“Yes,” he breathes out.

“Of course,” she reassures.

If it’s anything like last night, he’ll go off almost immediately, so she takes her time slicking up her fingers. She gradually slows the motion of her pumping hand, gentling her grip and then pulling off completely as she shifts position to bring her knees underneath her. Then she’s rising up on them, straddling his thigh so he can watch as she dips her fingers into the wetness coating her pussy.

Incredible, how aroused she gets making Neville lose his mind.

“Please,” he says again and she can’t believe how powerful, how _satisfying_ , it feels to give him pleasure.

“Please, what,” she teases. “Should I stop? Or do you want a taste?”

“Hermione,” he groans, and catches the hand pumping between her legs to pull it to his mouth instead. He sucks her fingers into his mouth, running his tongue between them and the sight of it and the heat in his eyes makes her stomach twist in the best way.

“Taste nice?” she asks, more breathily than she intended.

“So nice,” he husks back.

She pulls back on her hand and dips it back between her thighs, reaching for a bossy voice and saying: “I’m glad, because now I’m just going to have to get them all wet again.”

Neville flat out moans, watching as her fingers disappear between her lower lips. The sound makes her cunt spasm, so she keeps the tone and tells him, “Now let’s get you taken care of, huh?”

“Yes,” he says, and then says it again and again as she settles back between his thighs and pulls his cock into her mouth. She wiggles her fingers between his clenched cheeks until she finds his little pucker, and then traces it with her wet finger tips.

Neville’s sucking air like a blown horse, and he lets out an awful pained sound when she finally pushes in but it _isn’t_ a sound of pain because he’s canting his hips down onto her hand and saying, “Oh shit, yes, yes, shit, yes.” Hermione stops bobbing her head and starts concentrating on maintaining suction as her finger moves blindly inside him. She’d only ever read about this before last night, and now that they’re free from the influence of the fire lichen, she wants to make sure she gets this right.

That little bit just there must be it, because rubbing it makes Neville groan again and swivel his hips and then he’s chanting “I’m gonna come.” Hermione pulls a big breath in through her nose, grateful for the warning, because his cock jets pulse after pulse of come into the back of her mouth and she has to swallow several times before he’s done.

She lets his softening cock fall gently to his legs, dropping a little kiss onto the crown and then again on the crease of his hip and pulls her finger free, wiping it on the sheets for lack of anything better to clean it, _sans_ wand as she is.

“Lords and ladies,” he says after his breathing has calmed a bit and she’s cuddled up into his side.

“See?” she asks teasingly. “Wasn’t that _nice?_ ”

Neville tilts her head up and kisses her thoroughly.

“Stay right here,” he says when he comes up for air. “I’ll just be a moment,” and then he’s rolled out of bed and disappeared through the door.

Hermione flops to her back in the bright room, confused and entirely too aroused. She rubs her hand across her chest, fingering the scars before palming her breast and running her other down her stomach and between her thighs.

She’s dewy with arousal, but not the unnatural, overwhelming drenching from last night. She slick and swollen, letting her fingers play easily through her folds. Her clit is hard and engorged with blood, pushing out so the heel of her hand catches on it and makes her hips jump as she traces her opening with two fingers.

“Sorry,” says Neville as he walks in the door. “Had to… _Merlin_.”

Hermione snatches her hand back, embarrassed, but Neville is _looking_ at her again.

“You naughty thing,” he rasps at her. “I told you I’d be right back.”

“Oh,” she witlessly replies, but how is she supposed to be clever when he’s suddenly crouched over her like this?

“You’ll have to be patient with me,” he tells her and then dips down to kiss her again. She threads her hands into his hair and holds him to her. She feels filthy because her wet fingers catch in his hair and it makes her stomach flip deliciously. “I’ve never really done this before.”

“Done what?” she asks vaguely, hazy with arousal.

“Eaten out a girl,” he replies, and finishes their snog with an incongruous little peck.

“Huh?” she asks, but then Neville’s tossed a pillow on the floor and is kneeling on it and he’s grabbed her thighs and is pulling her around so her hips are half-hanging off the bed.

“So pretty,” he tells her and he must be _mad_ because even she doesn’t think her pussy is pretty and it’s not even covered in scars the way the rest of her is.

“Like this?” he asks, and then he starts licking her. She’s already lost in a fog of lust, so it’s all she can do to give him the feedback he’s asking for.

He starts with long, indulgent licks, cleaning up her slick thighs and diving between her swollen labia to reveal her inner folds. And then he continues his explorations with shorter ones, exploring her pink vulva and slick hole and the red little cherry of her clit poking out from its hood.

“Look how little you are,” he murmurs into her cunt, and then pushes his tongue inside her and Jesus, _fuck_ , that’s good. “I can’t believe how little you are – does it feel good when you stretch around me?” And then he slips two fingers inside her to watch her pussy suck them in.

 _“Fuck,_ that’s hot,” he tells her as she moans at him. It’s not just the feeling, although he’s twisting his fingers together in that first inch where she’s most sensitive and it’s _amazing_. It’s also, she realizes, his words and the look on his face and how he keeps flicking his eyes up to meet hers and check in.

“Neville,” she pleads.

“What do you need, love?” he asks and his fingers are twisting inside her so deliciously and then he drops a little kiss on top of her mons and rubs his stubbly cheek against her thigh and it’s so good and sweet and _perfect_. “Show me what you need,” he adds when all she can do is moan.

So she does. “My clit,” she says and shoves her fingers down. “Can you?” she gets out, rubbing over and around it in small circles that have her squeezing down on his fingers so that they’re both moaning now.

“How’s this?” he asks, and then he’s latched his mouth over the apex of her thighs and his tongue is sweeping in little circles over her clit. He sucks a bit, lipping her clit and then licking it again and his mouth is very hot and wet and she says “Just like that, yesss.”

Neville’s looking up at her, brow all wrinkled and she can just see his top lip and she can feel his tongue on her and it’s very, very good.

“Oh, god,” she moans and has to close her eyes for a moment.

“Can I?” he asks, and then she jumps a little as he pushes his slick finger against her _other_ hole. She’s vaguely thought about it, of course, but it isn’t until she says, “Okay” that she realizes she’s genuinely curious about it.

“ _Fuck_ ,” they say almost in tandem as he pushes in past the tight ring of muscle. It’s weird as hell, but then Neville groans and starts working her clit again with his mouth. _Weird_ gets downgraded to _not bad_ and then _nice_ in pretty short order as he slips the finger in and out of her and licks like a madman at her clit.

Her pussy is feeling empty, though, so she grabs his other hand that’s playing with her tit and shoves it down. “In me,” she tells him and then she’s finally got something to grip her walls around.

“Ohhh,” she moans and then he’s groaning and the vibrations drive her _mad_. She bites down on her left hand, right on the fleshy base of her thumb, and palms her breast with her right. “Ohhhhh, fuck, Neville. Yes, yes, _yessss_ ,” she chants as his fingers push and pull and she’s so full and overwhelmed with sensation that she pinches her nipple brutally and then…

Her orgasm breaks over her like a wave, contracting her abdomen and pussy, forcing her upright. She releases her nipple and clasps Neville’s head to her with both hands as she rocks on his fingers and his tongue flickers madly over her clit.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she gasps, winded.

“Uhnnn,” he groans and she’s too sensitive and it almost _hurts_. Then she realizes she’s clutching his head to her pussy and what if he can’t breathe?

“Sorry, sorry,” she says wildly, letting go and petting his head.

Neville pulls back, looking at her with hazy eyes and he looks like he’s almost as gone as she _feels_. “Huh?”

“Huh?” she asks back, because he’s dropping little butterfly kisses all over her pussy and the afterglow is turning everything hazy and she can feel her cunt and her thighs and her belly twitching in aftershocks.

“You taste _so good_ ,” he tells her after a last lick, and then he’s sucking the fingers of his left hand into his mouth and wiping his other on the sheets.

“I do?” she asks.

“ _Fantastic_ ,” he reassures her and he’s standing up and grabbing her under her knees and pushing her back from the edge of the mattress. Hermione’s entire body is limp and damp with sweat, so she can’t really feel bothered about it.

“Are you up for another go?” he asks, and she almost says _no_ but then she takes in the sight of him holding her legs spread wide, his hands spanning the middle of her thighs where her black socks end, and his red cock pointing up at his stomach.

“And how the hell are these still on?” he adds, running his palm up and down her socked thighs.

“Sticking charm,” she murmurs, and reaches out to pull his cock into her.

“Ha,” he laughs. “Magic,” and laughs again and then he’s pushing in and it’s almost _too much_.

“Oh, love, you’re so _tight_ ,” he hisses and Hermione playfully squeezes down on him just to show him how tight she can get. It makes him grunt sharply, makes him tear his eyes away from where they’re joined and look her in the eye. She grins dopily at him, pleased with herself.

“Like that, is it?” he asks and she laughs, but then he scoops his arms beneath her knees so her legs are cocked over his shoulders and starts stroking into her with long, smooth pushes. He’s got one knee propped on the bed and he’s resting on his elbows over her and she likes how all she can see is him.

She isn’t laughing anymore – she’s making little grunts in time with his thrusts – but she’s still smiling, chest full of happiness.

Who knew sex could be so _fun_? 

The angle’s nice too, she decides, sort of slanted so that each pass of his cock ends in a little twist that makes her toes curl. And there’s room enough between the two of them that her hand can skim down her belly to…

“Look at you, touching yourself,” Neville pants. He shifts his weight so he’s braced on one hand and can watch his cock slip inside her and the frantic rubbing of her fingers. “I love the way your pretty painted nails look, sliding all over your cunt. How does it feel, sweetheart? How does it feel rubbing your clit while I fuck you? Can you feel my cock move inside you?”

Just like that, something trips in her brain, burns away the playfulness and makes her desperately needy. Hearing Neville – clumsy, sweet Neville from her childhood who has somehow become this terrible, wonderful _man_ – let these filthy things out of his mouth is driving her absolutely starkers.

“Yes,” she gasps. Right now she’d tell him absolutely anything. She’s half-incoherent, sure, but she’ll do her _very_ best to answer his questions. “I feel so _full_ , Neville. You don’t know – I was all wet and hollow and now I’m full of you. Your cock is so… I want… _oh!_ ”

Neville’s shifted again, and now one of his hands is playing with her breast, pulling at the nipple. “I saw you,” he tells her. “I saw how you pinched your tit and came all over my face. Is that what you like, Hermione?” He twists it between his fingers and it’s a sharp little jolt that’s _just right_.

“Oh, god, oh, god,” is her only reply, and her whole body is rocking in time with his thrusts and her fingers are rubbing frantically at the apex of her thighs.

“Give me an answer, Hermione,” he scolds her and then he’s shifting _again_ to sit on his knees with her hips in his lap. He’s gripping her arse and using the strength in his arms to pull her hips into hard, powerful thrusts. “Tell me, Hermione,” he says, and then slaps her arse sharply.

“Oh, god, yesssss,” she moans, wrapping her legs around his back and squeezing down on his cock and reaching up for him even though he’s so far away.

“You going to come on my cock, again? Going to cover me in your cream? You feel so good when you do, squeezing and pulling at me like you can’t get enough.”

“Want you,” she pants at him. “Can’t – got to make you come in me. Got to make you come deep inside and make me full.”

“I will, darling. I’ll fill you up, I promise,” he grunts, snapping his hips into hers.

“Neville, please, please,” she pleads. It’s too much, it’s overpowering, but it’s also _not enough_.

“You need this, Hermione?”

Thank god, he drops down, pressing his sweaty body to hers and pushing her down into the mattress. He takes her aching nipple into his mouth, rolling the little bead with his tongue and pulling at it _hard_. He’s got his lips wrapped around his teeth, but it _pinches_ and it takes her out of her head. All she can do is take what he’s giving her and it’s everything.

“I’m coming, don’t stop, don’t stop, Neville, don’t stop” she chants, her hand rubbing furiously at her clit and her other arm dug into his back to make sure he doesn’t go anywhere.

And he doesn’t.

“Oh, _fuck_ , fuck Neville, _fuck me_ , please, please.” She must look ridiculous, popping her head up to meet his gaze, but she can’t spare enough energy to care. All she can do is see him pulling her tit into his mouth and all she can feel is her cunt bearing down on his cock and then her orgasm whites out her vision and it goes on and on and _on_.

“Hermione, love, look at me. I’m coming, love.”

“Yes,” she says and pulls her hand free from between their bodies to dig into the flesh of his arse. The muscle is clenching underneath her hand with each thrust, so she slides her other hand down and then she’s pulling him into her as deep as he can go.

 _Mine_ , she thinks feverishly, and the thought is so satisfying.

“Come in me. I want you. Come in me, Neville,” she tells him.

“Again,” he barks.

“Please fuck me, Neville,” she pleads and even though her body is still twitching and boneless and sensitized from the last orgasm, it’s true. It’s too much sensory input right now, but she also wants him to come in her. “I want you to empty yourself into me – you promised, you promised you’d come in me so deep, Neville. _Fill me up._ ”

“ _Shit_ , ‘Mione,” he gasps and then he mashes his mouth to hers in a graceless kiss and oh, god, she can feel his cock twitching as he pumps his come into her.

“So good, Neville,” she tells him when he rips his mouth away to pant into her shoulder. She palms his arse, squeezing it and then runs her hands up and down his back, petting him through his post-coital daze. “God, you make me come so _hard_. Fuck, you’re amazing, Neville.”

“The best,” he reminds her of her words from yesterday and as her pussy is still fluttering intermittently with aftershocks, she has to agree.

“The best,” she echoes.

“Helga’s tiny tits, this is uncomfortable,” he remarks after a couple minutes of lying there and catching their breath.

“ _Noooo,_ ” she whines just like last night when he pulls free and moves so they’re actually lying fully on the mattress and not on the wet spot.

“Hush, love,” he tells her, and pushes three fingers into her and pumps them through the mess in her cunt.

“What are you doing?” she protests, watching his fingers playing with her even though little tremors are still rocking her body. “You’re not serious.”

“No, I’m knackered,” he agrees. “I just wanted to feel you all slick with my come.” And then he sticks his fingers in his mouth. “Why does that taste awful and feel amazing?” he asks her when he pulls his fingers free.

“Oh, god,” she says to that, and kisses him.

 

.:.

 

Hermione wakes up to the dog barking outside.

“Wha—?” she mumbles, rubbing at her face. She’s on her back, and Neville’s head is pillowed on her chest, his arm slung around her waist and leg pinning hers open. Her lower back hurts, to say nothing of what’s going on down further.

“Just the dog,” Neville mumbles and then practically leaps out of bed when he hears the old-lady voice call “ _Neville! Neville! Where are you?! Hallo-oooo! Neville, you were supposed to meet me at the greenhouses. You still asleep, boy?_ ”

“Oh god, it’s Pommy!” He whispers frantically at her.

“Who?” she asks, blearily.

“ _Professor Sprout_ ,” he hisses. “I was supposed to meet her at nine in the greenhouses to go over the samples I brought back. _Shit_.”

“ _Nine?_ ” she gasps, and then sits straight up. “What time is it? Shit, I have to get to the Cannons’ game.”

“It’s…Merlin, it’s gone ten-thirty.”

“ _Shit_.” And then Hermione’s on her feet, too, but she can’t get dressed because she’s absolutely all over sweat and come and anyone looking at her would know she’s been up to no good. She also probably smells.

“Here,” says Neville and tosses her wand to her from where it was sitting next to his this whole time. “I’ll get her out of the house as soon as I can. The Apparation wards end just outside the gate.” He’s fumbling with the tie on his pants as he talks, linen shirt already thrown over his head. He looks like something from the turn-of-the-century, with those ridiculous pants that fall nearly to his knees.

“Neville, I have _got_ to get you some boxers,” she tells him and then casts a series of charms to tidy them both up enough. Not that she’s not going straight home to shower.

“ _If you’re not down here in five minutes, boy, I’m coming up and I don’t care what state you’re in.”_

“I’ve got to hurry – she hates it when people are late.”

“Neville, _where are my knickers_ ,” she shrills _sotto voce_. Skirt, bra, jumper, socks (still), but no knickers. Where’s her bag? Are her shoes downstairs?

“On the rug downstairs, probably,” he replies and then says, “Oh, Merlin, do you need silphium? I can send some over. I _cannot_ believe I didn’t ask you…” his voice trails off as he pulls a jumper over his head and tucks it into the waist of his pleated trousers, and then pulls a heavy work robe over his outfit. He has the style of an eighty-year-old man, but somehow he still looks appealing.

“No, but I should have told you. I have a Muggle device that prevents pregnancy.” She can feel the heat rising to her cheeks, recalling at the things she said – _begged_ for – over the past day.

“They make those? How do they – no, stay on tack, Neville. Ah, I’m healthy as of my last checkup – for my trip you know – and you’re the only one since then.”

“Me, too. Healthy,” she says, bright red as if her mother hadn’t been having conversations with her about this since school had involved _recess._

 _When the time comes, love_ , her mother had always started, _I want you to know what to expect._

“Ah, good. Sorry, should have asked.” Neville sloppily kisses her, missing half her mouth and getting her philtrum and a bit of her cheek instead. It’s breaks the cloud of embarrassment, and she suddenly smiling back at him.

“Well, we were distracted last night, and too busy this morning,” she laughs, then kisses him properly. “Thank you for asking, you darling. Now go downstairs before Professor Sprout comes up and catches us.”

“Yes, ma’am.” And then, cheeky like she’s never seen him, he pulls her into a hug and then squeezes her bum with both hands and kisses her again. “Come over, soon. Okay?” He’s starting intently at her, and she bites her lip to keep the grin off her face.

“Okay,” she breathes and kisses him one last time and then shoves him so he finally goes out the door.

“Okay,” he grins crookedly at her, and then closes the door behind him.

 

.:.

 

Ron will _not_ let it _go_.

“Can’t believe you were _late_ ,” he says for the umpteenth time.

“I don’t see why it matters one bit,” she snaps back.

It’s not like this is a premier match or anything. Plus, their seats are pretty mediocre. Nothing like what Mr. Weasley had scored for the family way back when at the World Cup. Harry could, of course, have afforded nicer seats for he and Ginny, but since both Hermione and Ron are restricted to miserly junior Ministry employee salaries, they’re about six tiers too low for anything like a decent view.

“Our seats are _assigned_ , Ron,” she condescends at him. “And besides, it’s not like _you_ missed any action,” she adds.

“It’s the principle of the thing. Harry missed the opening ceremony.”

“It’s an _exhibition match_ , Ronald, not the championship. Not that Harry cares about that anyway.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he rejoins. “It’s the _principle of it_ , isn’t it?”

“I’m just glad you made it,” interjects Harry. And if Hermione thinks it sounds a bit desperate, she can’t blame him.

The official start time of the _Chudley Cannons v. Woollongong Warriors Exhibition Match 1999_ had been set at 11am, but the actual release of the Snitch had been pushed back to a quarter past with all the to-do of player announcements and so on. So Hermione honestly wouldn’t have felt _too_ terribly guilty about being late if someone hadn’t had to wait to give her the ticket. She had found Harry waiting outside the stadium, alone and miserable, surrounded by scads of people asking for autographs and his opinion on whatever was important to them.

“Me, too, Harry,” she says, leaning behind Ron’s back to meet his eyes and send him an apologetic smile.

The thing is, as desperate as people are to move past the war (and they are – wizarding society is practically _frenetic_ with the desire to ignore it), they can’t help but also worship Harry. Which is uncomfortable to be around and, she imagines, ghastly to live.

“So,” starts Harry, trying to change the subject.

“It’s unconscionable, is what it is,” continues Ron.

“ _We didn’t miss anything_ ,” seethes Hermione back at him, distracted from Harry’s efforts. “We were there in time to see the Snitch released, _ergo_ , we didn’t miss any of the match.”

“Will you _shut up_ , Ron,” snaps Ginny on Harry’s other side.

“Well, _excuse me_ ,” retorts Ron, omnioculars still glued to his face.

“Danu, grant me patience,” mutters Ginny, scribbling viciously into her notes.

They’re able to “enjoy” a full three minutes of the game in silence before Ron adds:

“Don’t see why she had to wear _that,_ though.”

Ron is also fuming about her jumper. Which is black. Because, besides being late, Hermione had had the _temerity_ to pull on a black jumper in her rush out of the shower.

“It’s _inconsiderate_ ,” he continues, ignoring Harry’s melodramatic sigh. “Just because her parents live in Australia now doesn’t mean she needs to wear their colors to a Cannons match.”

“ _Oh my god_ ,” hisses Hermione. “It’s 190-30 Warriors, you git. As if the color of my jumper has _anything to do_ with the fact the Cannons are _abysmal_.”

Ron gasps, tearing his omnioculars away from his face to stare at her like she’s a manticore. “You _take that back_.” Hermione can see Harry making a face at her over Ron’s outraged shoulder, but she doesn’t care anymore.

“I’M HUNGRY,” says Harry when she continues to ignore him in favor of glaring venomously back at Ron. “Hermione, would you go get a pasty for me? I’d go but I am so _captivated_ by the Cannons’ change in defense. _Aren’t you_ , Ron?” And then he shoves a little bag of coins at her behind Ron’s back and mouths, _Take a walk._

“What’s happened?” cries Ron, twisting back to the game with the stupid magic binoculars glued to his face.

Hermione snatches the purse out of Harry’s hand with one arm and makes an annoyed flicking gesture at Ron’s head. She must be getting old, because she’s turning into her mum. How many times had she seen her do just that when her dad was being particularly obtuse?

“Fine, Harry,” says Hermione, still sore. “A pasty sounds _just grand_.”

“Get me a pint, will you, ‘Mione,” mutters Ron and she could happily _strangle him_ right now. “And two sausages,” he adds.

“I’m coming, too,” announces Ginny.

“What?” asks Harry, bewildered. “But you wanted to—” but Ginny’s tossing her things into his lap and already up and moving down the aisle.

“Make sure she gets me a decent brew, will you, Gin?” Ron calls, attention focused on the Cannons’ Quaffle-handling.

Hermione frowns at the cranky redhead making her way to the stairs and follows, shoving Harry’s money into her bag and making her way awkwardly down the aisle, too.

And if she twists her heel into the top of Ron’s foot as she goes, _who could blame her?_

“Not here,” says Ginny as they pass the first concession stand.

“Okay,” replies Hermione. She hadn’t noticed before (because she was _late_ , adds a mental voice that sounds irritatingly like Ron), but Ginny is in a bit of mood, too.

They keep walking up the stairs until Ginny abruptly changes tack and heads into the women’s W/C. Hermione, not averse to using the facilities, follows.

She’s in and out before Ginny emerges from her stall, so she has time to check on the state of her hair (normal, if a bit bushy from her annoyance at Ron. Thank _Merlin_ she took a shower when she got home) and to check on the state of the marks Neville left behind. Gone now, thanks to a few dabs of the arnica-dittany ointment she developed her eighth year.

“God, he’s being so _annoying_ ,” grouses Ginny as she washes her hands. “ _Unbelievable_.”

“I _know_ ,” agrees Hermione fervently. “I apologized how many times? Four? Five? And he will _not_ let it go.”

“What? No, not Ron. Although he’s always a prat,” adds Ginny thoughtlessly. She’s frowning fiercely at her reflection, and then she pulls her hair back viciously and secures it into a ponytail. “ _Harry_.”

“Wait, what?” responds Hermione because, what?

“He’s all, _are you alright? Can I get you anything_?” She mocks in an artificially-deep voice. “But he doesn’t really mean it, _does he_? Because most of the time he’s pretending I’m _not even there_.

“ _Men_ ,” she spits out, and then redoes the ponytail. Which is probably a good idea, given the massive chunk popping out of the top of the first attempt.

“Ah,” ventures Hermione, totally lost. “What do you think prompted his latest, erm, tantrum?”

Ginny twists around to face her and Hermione is abruptly reminded of her friend’s facility with hexes. “Not that you have to share,” Hermione adds, “just thought you might want to.”

But then Ginny’s pushing open the door on each of the three stalls, and then locking the main door and _looking_ at Hermione like the brunette has any idea what’s going on.

“Can I tell you something?” asks Ginny.

“Yes,” replies Hermione immediately. “I won’t tell anyone, or judge you, or anything,” she adds as an afterthought.

“You promise?” prods the younger witch.

“Well,” says Hermione. “As long as you aren’t confessing to carrying on a torrid affair. I don’t think I could keep that from Harry. Otherwise, yes, I promise.”

It’s obviously a bad attempt at levity because Ginny replies with a cracking:

“HA!”

And then:

“An affair. Helga’s tiny tits, if only it were an affair,” Ginny mutters, spinning back to the mirror. Hermione joins her at the counter, fiddling with her own hair. That’s what girls do in these types of situations, isn’t it? Do stuff with their hair? It’s what Parvati and Lavender always did, in any case.

“Please know that I’m not pressuring you to tell me _anything_ ,” Hermione urges after a couple torturous minutes staring at herself in the mirror and ignoring Ginny’s reddening nose. “Only if you want to – if you think it will help.”

Is that _another_ hickey? _Unbelievable_.

“No, it’s…” and then Ginny is very silent and still, enough so that Hermione gives up on the pretense and reaches out to clasp the girl’s hand in her own. “I was pregnant,” she finally says.

“I miscarried Tuesday after practice.”

 _Oh_ , Hermione thinks, stunned.

“Oh, _Ginny_ ,” she croons, and pulls the girl into her arms. Which is _definitely_ the right move, because Ginny’s whole face has turned red and she collapses sobbing into Hermione’s perfectly normal and event-appropriate black jumper. “ _Darling_ , I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Ginny.

“Oh, love,” she says and cards her hair through Ginny’s wreck of a ponytail.

“It’s my _fault_ ,” Ginny sobs into Hermione’s shoulder, and then adds a bunch of incoherent self-blaming _nonsense_ that Hermione can’t parse and doesn’t need to.

“It’s not your fault, it _isn’t_ ,” Hermione insists and rocks Ginny back and forth even though the redhead’s a bit taller. “You know it’s not your fault, and Harry knows it’s not your fault. He loves you _so much_ , no matter what. You couldn’t change that if you tried.”

“It _is,_ ” insists Ginny wetly and Hermione wandlessly summons the little pack of tissues she keeps in her purse.

“No, it’s _not_ ,” she tells Ginny firmly and holds a tissue up to her nose. “Blow, there you are, love.”

“But I didn’t _want_ to be pregnant,” says Ginny desperately. “It’s too soon, and I just got signed, and then I found out and it was going to ruin _everything._ And now the baby’s _gone_.

“It’s my fault,” she says again, red all over and sobbing brokenheartedly about pretty much the worst feeling in the world.

“I know you feel guilty, darling. I _know_. But it _wasn’t_ your fault.” Hermione soothes.

And then she adds (because she finds statistics reassuring at times like this): “Did you know one in ten Muggles miscarry in the first trimester? And that’s just the women who realize they’re pregnant. I imagine the rates are _much_ higher amongst witches, given our relatively low birth rate.”

But that doesn’t seem to be of much comfort, because Hermione’s shoulder is all wet and Ginny’s leaning even more heavily into her embrace. “Oh, Ginny, sometimes horrible, terrible things like this just _happen_ ,” she whispers, squeezing her hard.

“But _why?_ ” Ginny sobs into Hermione’s shoulder.

And there isn’t really anything Hermione can say to that.

Instead, she rubs Ginny’s back and rocks her back and forth. Eventually, when Ginny’s crying has abated a bit, Hermione says:

“Muggles have studied why miscarriages happen. Sometimes it has to do with the viability of the fetus, whether the bits of the man and the woman will come together and create something that could become a healthy baby. Sometimes it has to do with availability of resources, like food or perhaps the mother is under tremendous stress like a, a _genocide_ or a war or even because she has too many other children. And much of the time, they still don’t know. It’s a mystery, even though they examine hundreds of healthy, happy Muggle women and ask them all sorts of questions. It just happens.

“I’m _so sorry_ you’re going through this, Gin. You didn’t do anything to cause this, I want you to know that. It’s wretched, and I can see you’re feeling pretty miserable. And if Harry is making you feel anything other than loved and wanted, I will _hurt him_ ,” she promises fervently.

“Oh, _Merlin_ ,” says Ginny. “He’s the _worst_. Just asking me what he can do, and how he can help, and if I want to talk about it. Just _hovering_.”

Hermione laughs a bit, because she can tell from Ginny’s tone that the witch realizes she’s being too hard on Harry. And if Hermione’s got a few tears running down her face, what of it?

“Did you know for very long?” she asks gently, still rubbing Ginny’s back.

“I only knew three weeks ago, when my courses were late and then I did a test and, well…

“I waited a couple days to say anything, you know? Because I don’t want to be a mum yet,” she whispers.

“But then I had to tell him, didn’t I? You know how he is about having a family. It’s not like I could keep it a secret from him. It wouldn’t be fair.”

“Of course you did. And I bet he was thrilled.”

“Oh, yes,” agrees Ginny, wiping at her eyes with her sleeves. “You should have seen him. I though he was going to hurl right onto the sofa.”

“I’ll bet,” laughs Hermione wetly, handing her another tissue.

“Thanks,” mutters Ginny, checking on her red face in the mirror.

“You’re welcome. Any time, Ginny, I _swear_.” And Hermione pops up on her toes to press a firm kiss to Ginny’s forehead. “You’re my friend, Ginny. I’ll do whatever you need me to.”

“Merlin, I’m being ridiculous. It’s not his fault he doesn’t know what to do, right?” she asks, meeting Hermione’s eyes in the mirror.

“Well, _I_ don’t know what to do, and _you_ don’t know what to do, so how could Harry? He’s always been rubbish at things that need a delicate touch,” Hermione asks philosophically.

“Right,” agrees Ginny. “And he still loves me.”

“Oh, yes,” agrees Hermione, because that’s blatantly self-evident. “It’s revolting.”

“Right,” says Ginny again and nods at herself in the mirror.

“Okay,” says Hermione, rubbing her palms across Ginny’s muscular shoulders when they’re both a bit calmer. “We’re going to go get pasties for everyone and some ale for your prick of a brother, and then we’re going to watch the rest of the match.”

“Yes,” says Ginny. “And I’ll, Merlin. I don’t know. I’ll…”

“You’ll let Harry know you love him,” prods Hermione, “and let yourselves feel whatever you’re feeling, no matter how you feel about it.”

She’s not even sure that made any sense. But apparently it’s enough for Ginny, because she says:

“Right, I’ve got this,” Ginny says to her reflection, and takes a deep breath. “Okay. Let’s go.”

 

.:.

 

By the time they get back to their seats, the Warriors are up 280 points.

“I took notes,” calls Harry helpfully as soon as they start shuffling down the crowded aisle with their overpriced snacks. “I tried, at least. I took note of all the maneuvers Ron and the announcers called out, anyway.”

Hermione can _feel_ Ginny scowling behind her, so she mutters “He _loves_ you” and is pleased to hear the redhead say:

“Thank you, Harry.”

“Finally,” says Ron when Hermione passes him by, and he snatches one of the floating pints from her wake and _three_ of the sausages.

“ _You’re welcome_ ,” she grinds back.

Lord, how could she ever have thought they’d get back together? She can’t even spend an afternoon with him without getting her hackles up.

“Thank you for the food, love,” she hears Harry say and watches from the side of her eye as he dips down and kisses his fiancée on the cheek.

“You’re welcome, Harry,” says Ginny, and she gives him a little peck and then leans into his shoulder as she pops a chip into her mouth. Hermione watches Harry’s arm raise hesitantly, and then wrap around Ginny’s shoulders and her irritation with Ron melts away.

They are _awfully_ in love, she sees. A genuinely loving relationship. Even given Harry’s horrible upbringing and Ginny’s temper, they still _fit_ and they work together to get through the rough patches. The _roughest_ of patches, she mentally corrects, watching Harry rest his head on Ginny’s.

Hermione spends the last forty minutes of the match letting Ron’s foul temper roll off her back, and doesn’t even say anything when the Woollongong Seeker makes a victory lap, cementing his team’s 410-130 win.

She floats above it determinedly the whole time they filter through the excruciatingly slow exit from the stadium, and during Ron’s vehement tear-down of the match afterward at the _Grim Golem_. She flits above it like a hummingbird, determined to _enjoy_ her time with her friends and the lovely little Neville-shaped seed she’s secreting in her chest, and watching Harry and Ginny love one another through their crisis.

She wants _that_ , she decides, watching Harry tap the back of Ginny’s hand across the table. He slid in next to Ron on purpose, she knows, trying to keep the peace between his two best friends. She wants someone to love her like Harry loves Ginny. Someone who loves her even when she’s at her most miserable, who _tries_ even when he doesn’t know what to do.

And that person, it’s becoming progressively more obvious, is _not_ Ron. Not for her, at any rate.

That person, she realizes, as she laughs at vulgar Ginny’s locker room joke, _could_ be Neville.

“That’s disgusting,” laughing Ron for the first time all night. His blue eyes are sparkling, and his grin is bracketed by those fetching little creases in his freckled cheeks. But she doesn’t want to hold him close during a cold night; can’t imagine cuddling up next to him on the sofa, peacefully reading a good book.

Now that Ron’s finally talking about something other than Quidditch, their mood steadily improves. They’re laughing easily and often with the help of a pitcher or two of Dragon Scale.

Hermione is bellied up to the bar getting the next round when Ginny comes up behind her and gives her middle a squeeze.

“ _Thank you_ , ‘Mione.” She mumbles drunkenly into the brunette’s ear over the noise of the pub. “You’re the _best_.”

“Any time, love,” replies Hermione, and kisses her forehead as she hefts the full pitcher.

“Oy, a floor show!” calls a drunk wizard down the bar, one who’s entirely too old and should know better than to harass witches.

“Fuck off,” scolds Ginny without much heat and Hermione thinks that’s going to be it.

“Ooo- _eee_ ,” he replies. “What’s wrong, love. You on the rag?”

And, well.

Hermione can’t blame her, not really.

“What did you say to my sister?!” Ron roars belatedly, after Ginny’s reduced the wizard to retching up slugs on the sticky wood plank floor.

And then things get progressively more elevated from there, bad enough that Harry grabs Ron and Hermione grabs Ginny and in a moment of perfect synchronicity, they side-along Apparate their respective Weasleys back to Harry’s flat.


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Attempts to define relationships and a prompt to go Google Lithops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, there's no smut. But there are a heck of a lot of _feels_.

The next morning is torturous.

It’s not because she wakes up with a hangover. A bit of George’s best-selling Hang-It-All Hangover Draft and an Americano has her feeling perfectly functional by 8am, only thirty minutes after she sits down at her desk.

And it’s not even because of all the drama last night. After she and Harry made them several toasties, the two siblings had settled down into a raucous but innocuous night of drunken hilarity.

Ginny had unearthed a bottle of Gigglewater, well past its _Best by:_ date – a _congratulations on your drafting_ gift from a great-aunt. The dry and mild liquor had gone down with none of the burn or bite of the typical wizarding drinks, but had packed quite the punch. The result had been…frankly ridiculous and one of the most enjoyable and carefree nights Hermione could recall spending with her friends since puberty.

No. She woke quite cheerful – if muzzy – but her day had gone sharply down from there.

None of her requested documentation had been delivered from the Ministry Archives, necessitating her visiting the dank little office and speaking with the miserable archivists herself. Which would have been _fine_ , had she been able to get the help she needed. But the wizard manning desk had the mouth of a Jarvey and the soul of a Goblin. After thirty minutes of him explaining in minute and condescending detail why he could neither retrieve the materials himself nor allow her to, she had been forced to retreat to her desk to pen her request to expedite her _original_ written request (in _triplicate_ , on DRCMC letterhead).

Even that would have been bearable, if her department head Allaria Shafiq hadn’t come breezing by at 9:10 and dropped the prep for a Ministry-wide meeting into her lap.

 _By ten, cheers Hermione_ , she had said and then continued chatting in her obnoxious plummy voice with Charles Travers from the Department of International Magical Cooperation (and was there _ever_ a reason why everyone pronounced it _DIM, See?_ ). So she had hurriedly pulled figures from her paperwork (if _only_ she had used indexaskins!) on the DRCMC efforts to contain the various Dark creatures still menacing Britain after the war.

Not that she got to present her findings before the assembled Department representatives and Minister Shacklebolt, _no._

 _Excellent_ , said Shafiq as she thumbed through her presentation. _Looks great_ , and then she’d disappeared upstairs.

By 11:30, she’s managed to submit the requests, sort through her personal in-tray and the Department-wide memos (because if she didn’t, no one would), and finally start working. But by then she had been frankly exhausted and peevish, frustrated with all the _what did you do over the weekend, old boy_ conversations polluting her work environment. The inevitable result of an open layout and Shafiq’s lackadaisical management style.

She feels like she isn’t getting _anything_ done, so decides to tackle the Ron-shaped problem head-on. She misappropriates memo stationery and sends a little purple parchment plane to the _DMLE, Auror Office, Attn: Ron Weasley_ that says:

_Leaky for lunch? Atrium at 1?_

And then he sends the _same_ memo back with a scrawled _With bells on_ , which makes the plane wobbly and crash into Grimley’s desk next to her. _Of course_ the prat then makes a series of spiteful comments about irresponsible Ministry employees under his breath until she finally escapes the office at 12:55.

Things go even more awry when she hears “Could do with some chips after last night” behind her, and she turns to greet Ron _and_ Harry.

“Wotcher, ‘Mione,” Ron mumbles, pulling at his face as if he didn’t have access to an entire _store’s_ inventory of Hang-it-all. Harry rolls his eyes and gives her a buss on the cheek and starts chatting about his day while they wait for a fireplace to free up.

It’s not that she doesn’t want to see Harry, _per se_. It might even be better that he’s here – less chance of Ron putting his foot in it if Harry’s there to mediate. But at the same time, she’s a twenty-year-old witch. Shouldn’t she be able to have _the talk_ without needing a buffer or babysitter?

It’s even worse when she steps out of the fire and sees Ginny waving from the booth she’s secured.

“There you lot are,” she calls and Hermione smiles and waves cheerfully like she doesn’t want to scream.

She loves Harry, obviously. She loves Ginny. But good _lord_ they’re making it difficult on her – imagine if she’d actually been trying to date Ron!

Harry slides into the booth next to Ginny, she’s pleased to see, and they greet each other with a brief kiss. It’s sweet, and they all chit-chat over the menus and decide on the same things they always get. Ron goes to the counter and places their orders while Ginny fills them in on the latest drama going down between the two mediwitches who work for the Harpies. Hermione gets to kvetch about her awful morning filling out redundant paperwork and doing other people’s jobs for them, and Harry commiserates.

“Ron and I had to go to this massive meeting this morning. Room was _packed_ , we had to stand the entire two hours, and you would _not_ believe all the wand-measuring everyone was doing, trying to one-up everyone else. If Kingsley hadn’t seen me at the beginning, I think I would have tried to slip out.”

Hermione gallantly refrains from stomping his foot under the table.

Ron returns with four half pints, saying: “You talking about that meeting? Merlin, what a bore that was. _Well, my department’s done a better job that you idiots_ ,” Ron mocks. “As if any of them had done anything helpful before, during, or since the war. MLE’s the only one making a difference,” he finishes, passing around the glasses.

“That’s _not_ true,” Hermione replies, because it _isn’t_. And then she spends the next twenty minutes bickering with two dolts while Ginny gets progressively more bored with the conversation. Hermione sees it happening, but she forges on ahead because they’re _wrong_ and trivializing all the indirect Dark threats magical Britain is still combating.

“Hermione,” asks Ginny with an uncanny gleam in her eye. “How’d you find Neville?”

“What?” asks Hermione, jerked out of her defense of Muggle Liasons’ efforts to contain the chaos and enforce the Statute of Secrecy. Ginny has her eyebrows raised nearly to her hairline, staring fixedly at the line of Hermione’s shoulder. Hermione belatedly realizes that her gesticulating has shifted the neckline of her robes and shirt and claps a hand to the skin.

Holy shit, _did she miss a hickey?_

“Bless you, Ginny,” mutters Ron, oblivious to the subtext. “Yeah – how is old Nev doing? He just got back from Siberia, right?” he says, clearly trying to change the subject.

“Wait, Neville went away?” asks Harry.

“Ah, good, yes, he’s good,” stumbles Hermione, and then latches onto Harry’s lifeline to escape his girlfriend’s gimlet stare. “He spent nearly six months in Siberia, Harry, remember? We had that big send-off party in the spring and Luna brought her new beau.”

“You mean he _just_ got back? But the school year started almost a month ago. I thought he was busy doing, you know, teacher things.” Harry looks genuinely bewildered.

“Well he’s still studying, isn’t he?” comments Ron. “He’s an apprentice – not like he’s taken over Sprout’s classes just yet.”

“Right,” says Hermione and deliberately talks over Ginny’s sly, _He looking well, is he_?

“He just got back Thursday night. I went over Saturday to visit. He stayed with several tribes, but spent most of his time with a nomadic magical clan who travel all across the taiga – the forest, you know – during the summer. Oh, he’s got loads of stories. You would not believe all the plants the elders helped him collect. Did you know they’ve identified over _fifteen_ different kinds of lichens with magical properties?” But that’s cutting it a _little_ close, isn’t it? So she takes a long draft to cut off her babbling.

“Well that sounds _riveting_ ,” says Ron and Hermione glares at him over the rim of the pint glass.

“What? No, that actually sounds pretty cool,” argues Harry.

“Come off it,” scoffs Ron. “ _Lichens?_ That’s the kind of conversation that will send you right to sleep. Dead boring, I assure you, Harry.”

“Well, I’m sure Neville will tell it better,” says Hermione.

“I’m sure,” says Ginny. “He must be _starved_ for company, spending so long away from his friends, all alone. But I bet the time away did him some good. He’s probably all tan and fit from hiking all over the open tundra.”

“Oh, _please_ ,” says Ron providentially. “I’m sorry, but no. Look, I’ve dealt with you and Harry, alright? I _cannot_ deal with you talking about _Neville Longbottom_ like that.”

“Like what?” retorts Ginny. “Like he’s hot? He’s a catch – I’ve thought he was quite fit since since fourth year. There’s something terribly attractive about a kind man who takes a punch and gets right back up to fight again. Hey, Hermione?”

“Mmm,” she strangles out.

“See?” continues Ginny wickedly. “Hermione thinks he’s fit, too. Who wouldn’t after he toted her around the Department of Mysteries like that? Bet he looks even better now that he’s gone wilderness adventurer on us. We women love a romantic hero like that, trekking solo over nature’s harshest environments, working out their tragic backstories. Discovering medical miracle plants that’ll—”

“Well,” Hermione interrupts, “he actually spent most of his time—”

But then _Harry_ interrupts.

“Uh-oh,” he jokes nervously, “I know we’re both Chosen Ones, Gin, but I didn’t think I needed to be worried about Neville, hey?” he teases. Ginny’s obviously sensitive in light of their difficulties so she immediately switches from tormenting her friend and brother to reassuring her fiancé.

“You’re _my_ Chosen One,” she coos in a deliberately obnoxious tone that has Ron standing up abruptly and saying “ _Right_ , who’s for another round?”

“Let me up, love,” says Ginny as Ron arrows towards the bar. “Hermione and I have to use the loo.”

“Girls are so weird,” Harry mutters, but lets the redhead up after he extracts a kiss from her.

“Come on, Hermione,” says Ginny and there’s no escaping the hand clasped firmly around her wrist and pulling her into the single, claustrophobic women’s W/C.

“Well, well,” says Ginny, invading her personal space and raising Hermione’s wrist up for closer inspection. “What do we have _he–ere?”_

“ _Nothing_ ,” Hermione insists, even though there’s clearly a reddish band wrapping across the underside of Hermione’s wrist. God, how had she missed _that_? “I…I banged my wrist on the desk today?”

“Uh-huh,” says Ginny, not even pretending to buy it. “And is that how you got the hickey on your shoulder?”

“ _No_!” yelps Hermione, clapping her hand over the spot Ginny is pointedly staring at. She’d thought she treated all the marks with the ointment. How had she missed _two?_

“Ah-HAH,” crows Ginny. “It _is_ a hickey! Merciful Morrigan, Hermione. _Did you shag Neville Longbottom?_ ”

“Shhhh,” says Hermione, slapping Ginny’s hands away from where they’re clasping her shoulders and shaking her with glee. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re a much better liar than that, love. You’re not even trying – look how red you are!”

Hermione takes one look at her reflection in the terrible lighting and then the vile mirror says, “You _are_ red, aren’t you? You’re positively _puce_.”

“Shut up, you hag,” hisses Hermione, because it’s true. She _is_ puce (what an odious word, she thinks).

“I won’t, I won’t,” the redhead sing songs over the mirror’s _Well, I never!_ “I can’t believe you had _sex_ with _Neville_. What was it like – was he all fierce and bold? Or did he like you bossing him around the way you do?”

“I am not – I am not discussing this with you in the loo,” Hermione finally gets out, because there’s no use in protesting further.

“Yessss,” says Ginny, and shakes Hermione’s shoulders again. “This is _fantastic_. You have no idea how much I need this right now. _You are going to tell me ev-er-ee-thing_ ,” she croons like a complete loon.

“I am _not_ ,” retorts Hermione, pressing her hands to her cheeks to fight the flush.

“You _are_ , you tease. Ahh, this is amazing!” Ginny squeals like a thirteen-year-old, and then abruptly sobers.

“Now get out, I have to pee,” and then she’s shoved Hermione out of the W/C and locked the door behind her.

Harry shoots her a look across the bar – a mixture of worry and confusion – so she heads back to the table before Ginny can corner her again. The redhead (probably) won’t interrogate her in front of the boys. Right?

“She okay?” asks Harry.

“God, she’s _mental_ ,” says Hermione, and then reassures him when she sees his worry spike. “Not about that – she’s over the moon right now. Thinks she’s got a new plot to hatch.”

“Ah,” says Harry, obviously not that reassured. “Good?”

“Harry,” says Hermione, because this is the first time they’ve been alone together since Ginny told her. “I am _so sorry_ for your loss. I wish I could something to make it the least bit better for you.”

Harry meets her eyes for a second and then takes her outstretched hand and clutches it hard enough that Hermione slips around the table and onto his side of the booth to wrap him in a hug.

“Oi,” says Ron. “None of that melancholy nonsense right now. We don’t have time for all this – we have ten minutes to empty these and get back before we’re late. Bottoms up,” he commands and drops two full pints on the table.

“Right,” says Harry and wipes at his face. “Cheers, Ron.”

“Ta,” echoes Hermione, finishing off the remnants of her first pint so she can help.

They grab their glasses and queue up to settle their tabs, where Ginny joins them and helps Harry finish his. Ron shares his with Hermione while they wait, and makes Hermione drink most of it because _it’s a crime to leave a pint behind_ and _I’m on duty when we get back. ‘Sides, you need it today._

Which is true, if probably not the healthiest way to deal with the frustrations of her job.

“By the by,” says Ginny as they hug in front of the fireplace before heading back to work. “Harry and I are going to host a big Hallowe’en bash at Grimmauld Place. Perfect location, eh?”

 _We are?_ Harry mouths over his fiancée’s shoulder, wide-eyed.

“Sounds about right,” agrees Ron, enjoying Harry’s bewilderment. “Won’t take much to spook _that_ place up.”

“Indeed,” says Ginny.

Hermione throws a narrow-eyed glare at her girlfriend and mouths, _No_.

Ginny meets her stare and continues blithely on with a sly little smile. “Anyway, I just wanted to give you the heads up, _Ron_ , so you can finally get off your arse and ask out Parvati.”

“Wha—” splutters Ron. “I—? You’re mad. What a ridiculous thing to say. I don’t fancy Parvati.”

“Fine,” says Ginny smugly. “She’ll probably tell you ‘no’ anyway – she already knows you’re a prat and that she deserves better. But…if you don’t want in her pants, what’s the harm in asking her?”

“I am _not_ a prat,” spits Ron, the tops of his ears turning red. “I am a _catch_. I’m sure Parvati would _jump_ at the opportunity to go out with me.”

“Good, let me know what she says,” says Ginny, tickled with how easily he fell into her trap, and then springs the rest of it. “And you should invite Neville, Hermione.”

“Yeah,” says Ron. “He’s probably going to be in high demand,” he grouses. “Seeing as how us _catches_ are thin on the ground anymore. Best secure him as your date before he gets picked off by the competition.”

“Well, I’ll certainly think about it,” says Hermione, wonderingly. How on _earth_ does Ginny manage it?

“Excellent,” smirks her friend. “Talk soon!” And then she disappears into the fire.

“What just happened?” whispers Harry in her ear when they hug in the Atrium before parting ways.

“I _told_ you she’s plotting again,” she replies.

.:.

She dives into work the rest of the day, ignoring Grimley’s grumbling tantrum about the Pest Advisory Board’s budget requests for additional albino bloodhounds.

No one understood her enthusiasm when she – like all new DRCMC recruits – was assigned to work in the Office for House-Elf Relocation ( _Oh-ers_ , they’re called because most of Hermione’s co-workers are blithering idiots).

But it’s really the best possible place she could have ended up. Just a year in, she’s not only refined her understanding of House-Elf magic (tied to their family or institution’s well-being. The information lends a whole new facet to her doomed _S.P.E.W._ efforts) but leveraged over 15,000 Galleons in fines and fees. Most importantly, she’s personally conducted welfare checks on every single House-Elf in the islands.

 _That_ had been a coup. When her first unhappy owner – Petula Parkinson – had swanned in with the Notice of Special Assessment in hand, Shafiq had nearly ruined the whole thing.

She’d been holding her own against the irate witch, explaining in a calm, reasonable, and only slightly patronizing tone to the matron that her family had failed to submit to the Ministry-mandated welfare checks for over three decades. Well, _yes_ , ma’am, you’re right. Previous administrations had failed in their duties, no doubt a result of the corrupt culture that had caused so many difficulties in all aspects of wizarding life. But the current administration understood this, which is why they were waiving all of the back fines for cooperative taxpayers.

 _However_ , Hermione’s efforts to schedule a check this year had been stymied by the Parkinson’s failure to reply to the official notices. _Well_ , if Madam would like, she _could_ drop all but this year’s Elf-tax, the census fee, and the late scheduling fine. Of course, that could only happen if the welfare check could be completed in the next ten business days…That would save the family, _oh_ , at _least_ three thousand Galleons in decades of accumulated late fees.

It had been that phrase – _three thousand Galleons_ – that had stopped Shafiq in her tracks.

 _“Yes_ ,” Hermione had continued, “that would bring it down tooo…let’s see. Nine Galleons per elf, that’s forty-five, plus the nominal census fee of eight Sickles, 326 Knuts, and the late scheduling fee of five Galleons, twelve Sickles, 268 Knuts – why that’s only fifty-one Galleons, 14 Sickles, 276 Knuts! My _goodness_ , that’s nearly thirty-five hundred off your dues!

And then Hermione had pasted on her most insufferable smile and finished the bitch off with, “Of course, the Ministry understands that many households are experiencing…let’s call them _hardships_ in the post-war economy. I can help you file the appropriate paperwork if you’d like to pay in installments. I feel obligated to note, however, that interest _does_ accrue on the outstanding balance even with an installment plan.”

“ _Not necessary_ ,” Madam Parkinson had spat. “I can see you tomorrow at six in the morning.”

“ _Lovely_ ,” Hermione had returned. “I’ll be there bright and early. Please remember that all wizards and witches belonging to the household – _regardless of age_ – _must_ be absent,” here, she smiled viciously, “for the duration of the welfare check, though you can, of course, assign a neutral third-party monitor to accompany me on my visit. I’ll meet you back here at the Fountain at, let’s call it 9:30? To review my findings, file the paperwork, and settle your fines at with the Special Tax Force. Sound good?”

“ _Wonderful,”_ the older witch had ground out. “ _See you then,”_ and swept out of the offices.

“Ms. Granger,” Ms. Shafiq had whispered in the most peculiar voice. “What on earth are you doing?”

“Carrying out the law, ma’am,” she had replied. “By the by, I haven’t received a response from your family yet. Please do make sure you reply with three potential appointment slots before you incur late fees.”

And _that_ is why Shafiq had suddenly become so popular with the Cabinet – amazing what a bit of revenue generation could do for a political creature’s reputation.

Hermione’s efforts in enforcing statutes already on the books had resulted in a remarkable push by other Ministry Departments to review and enforce existing laws. All _sorts_ of things were being enforced for the first time. And the Wizengamot was practically overrun with petitions to overthrow antiquated laws, like those governing the maximum speed of a racing broom (finally something Spudmore and the Nimbus Company could agree on!).

By four-thirty, Hermione is feeling tired and a bit anxious, but quite satisfied with the days’ work. She’s processed two requests for House-Elf Relocation (the prestige of owning extraneous House-Elves was suddenly a lot less important when faced with annual House-Elf Special Tax Inspections and Assessments) and _finally_ received her research requests regarding Goblin law. She’s fairly certain it’ll be a goldmine of supporting evidence in her work to protect and promote werewolf rights.

The tiredness and satisfaction go hand-in-hand, a result of a day that was both frustrating and productive in turns. The anxiety…

Well, it’s a bit to do with Ginny’s ominous _Talk soon_ and _You are going to tell me everything_ and also a bit to do with the fact that she hasn’t seen Neville in two days and it’s driving her mad.

What is he thinking? What does he think of _her?_ Was that night (and morning) a one-time thing, purely the result of her stupid mistake with the tea? Does he have _feelings?_ Does she _want_ him to have feelings? Why had she been so obtuse for so long, thinking she’d end up with Ron?

She clocks out when her desktop timer hits _GO HOME_. It’s part of the new Ministry’s efforts to monitor employee work productivity. Hermione’s already received two official warnings for overtime, _and_ a personal visit from payroll stating in no uncertain terms that her hours will be forcefully curtailed if she continues to abuse time-and-a-half pay policies.

“Goodnight, Grimley. See you tomorrow, Topher,” she says and gets a dirty glance from Grimley and an “Oh, er, see you, Granger” from the clueless wizard who sits on his left.

She stops by her flat on the outskirts of Birmingham to drop off her bag and robes, and then grabs her Muggle wallet and feather-light market bags so she can walk to Tesco and pick up some groceries. Normally, she cooks a big meal or two on the weekends to tide her over through the week, but, well, _that_ certainly hadn’t happened, had it?

She’s headed back with her bags filled with all manner of sundries when she passes a flower shop and sees the most bizarre little plant in the window.

“Excuse me,” she asks the older woman manning the counter. “Could you tell me about the curious little flowers in the window?”

Which is how she ends up dropping thirty quid on a potted plant. And then she passes an H&M, and it’ll only take a moment to pick up what she needs, so she detours in there and spends another forty.

Back home, she puts everything away and then takes entirely too much time arguing with herself.

She could debate the points all night, she knows from experience. Make a cup of tea, break out the pen and paper. Make a very thorough pro-con list. Catch up on _Freaks and Geeks_.

Instead, she grabs her old beaded handbag and folds a couple of things into it, just in case.

She probably won’t need it.

In any case, she pushes right through Neville’s red garden gate without the least bit of hesitation around seven that evening and heads behind the cottage to the greenhouses.

She finds him in the middle one, its windows covered in condensation from the warm, humid air, working at a tall planting bench at the back of the structure. He hasn’t got any protective gear on other than a pair of lightweight canvas gloves and an apron, so she calls out,

“Hallo, there.”

“Oh!” he exclaims, and twists around to stare at her. And then his crooked grin spreads across his face. Her stomach makes that disconcerting fluttery feeling she remembers from third year when she first realized her Ron-shaped feelings. “Hello, Hermione.”

“Hi,” she repeats when she finally reaches him, dodging the efforts of a snaking fern to tangle in her hair. “How’re you?”

“Alright,” he says, tugging his gloves off and running a dirty palm through his hair. The gloves haven’t done one bit of good, she can see, because his bare forearms are covered all over in pink sticking seeds and the creases of his knuckles are black with soil.

“You?” he adds belatedly, still staring at her.

Has he been wondering how she feels, too? Fretting over whether they were a one-off thing, or if she wants something more serious?

Hermione searches his face, but he looks just like the Neville from her childhood – sweet, a little confused. Kind. She doesn’t see that brazen stare that turned her to mush just yesterday, or the needy look that made her feel like the most beautiful creature imaginable.

Should she have come? He did say _Come over soon_. She remembers that distinctly.

“Good,” she replies, and then shoves the potted plant at him. “I saw this and thought you’d like it.”

“I— What? My goodness, look at that,” he says, taking the shallow bowl from her and lifting it to his face.

Hermione decides losing his attention is even more unbearable than that indecipherable gaze. “They’re called lithops. They’re called _flowering stones_ colloquially, or sometimes _living stones_. They’re a mundane plant from southern Africa. They flower in the fall – these are too young, so you’ll have to wait for next year. But see, they come in all sorts of varieties.”

“They certainly do,” he says, turning the pot this way and that so the lights overhead illuminate the variegated red, orange, green, brown, and gray little succulents. “Good Godric, look at all the colors! What a cunning little plant. A desert grower, I daresay.”

“Yes,” says Hermione miserably, moving to inspect one of the plants he has hanging from the rafters. “They apparently need quite specific care in order to thrive – the shop owner said they go dormant for much of the year and you shouldn’t water them at all during that time.”

“Oh, sure,” he says. “Hermione – _thank you._ ” She can hear him set the pot down and this is so _awkward_ , so she moves to stare at another plant, this one with a large pitcher flower the color of an aubergine. “Oh—! Careful!”

She’s abruptly pulled back into his chest as the flower spurts a cloud of spores just where her face was a moment ago. His hands are about her waist, holding her to him as she watches the golden dust spread out all around. “Just let me…” he trails off, and then collects the floating particles into a stoneware jar ( _a_ specimen _jar, not a tea canister, you idiot_ , her mind cries) with a flick of his wand. “Don’t want you turning all green for the next week, do we?” he laughs awkwardly, patting her sides clumsily.

“No,” she says, turning to face him. “Certainly don’t want that…”

Neville’s face is flushed, and his eyes are skipping between hers. Why is this so awkward? What is it he wants? Should she leave?

“I should—” she starts, but Neville interrupts with:

“Oh, bollocks, I’ve ruined your shirt.” And then he’s wiping with his dirty hands at the marks he made on her white Oxford when he grabbed her, except his efforts are only making the mess worse.

All of a sudden, her courage comes flooding back. How ridiculous, to be afraid of Neville hurting her. He’d _never_ to try hurt her, even if he ends up breaking her heart one day.

“Not to worry, Neville. Little bit of dirt never hurt anything,” she says and rises up on her toes so she can kiss him hello.

Neville stops patting and pulls her to his chest instead, eagerly returning the kiss. It quickly transforms into a series of soft, sweet passes and then becomes a wet, sucking kiss complete with tongue and a little moan.

“Hallo,” he murmurs when he finally pulls back.

“Hi,” she breathes back like a total idiot.

His lips are slick and red from the kiss, and Hermione feels like her whole body has come alive.

“Thank you for my gift,” he says and his eyes are _gorgeous_. Hazel eyes must be the most underrated. His are filled with little streaks of amber and green, with a lovely gray ring around the iris.

“Glad you like it,” she returns in a ridiculous, lilting little voice.

“Glad you came over,” he replies in a _very_ suave manner that makes her toes curl.

“Me, too,” she sighs, and then they’re kissing again.

“God, it’s hot in here,” she says when they finally pull back a good while later.

“This is the tropical grow house,” he says in a distracted voice, which is perfectly understandable because somehow her hands have ended up under the neck of his stupid linen shirt and she’s rolling the warm skin of his shoulders in an impromptu massage. “It has to be hot.”

“Mmm,” she says because the tone of his voice is just _lovely_.

“Merlin,” he says, looking at her. “You are distracting.”

“Sorry,” she replies unrepentantly. “You hungry?”

“Yesss,” he groans when she scratches her nails over the soft hair on his chest. “ _Stop that_ ,” he adds, and pulls her hands out from his shirt and then kisses the knuckles of each. “You’re making this really very difficult, Hermione,” he scolds in an unusually gruff voice.

“Sorry,” she says again. “What am I making difficult?”

“Asking you out to dinner,” he replies. “I had it all planned out, and here you are, ruining everything.”

“You did?” she asks delightedly, and then adds wickedly, “Want to ask me over dinner?”

“You’re _impossible_ , witch,” he retorts, and then kisses her again. “Just,” he pecks her sharply to stop her laughing, “Just go entertain yourself in the house while I wash up and then we can go eat, alright?”

“Alright,” she says into his mouth, and kisses him again.

He spins her around finally, pushing her ahead of him out of the greenhouse, through the yard, and into the warmth of the mudroom. She toes off her boots, shrugs out of her jacket, and hangs it and her bag on an empty hook.

“Stop it,” he warns, as she watches him pull his apron over his head and tug his wellies off.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she teases. God, this is so _fun._

“Liar,” he says, and prods her into the kitchen with a delicious little smack to her bum.

“Won’t be a minute,” he says, and pecks her once more on the lips and disappears upstairs.

It’s good he’s out of sight, she decides, because her white shirt is half-grey with soil and also her hair is a bit mussed. She inspects herself in the mirror, casting a quick _Evanesco_ to clean her shirt and pulling back the top half of her hair to tame it a bit and get it out of her face. Puberty and getting control of her magic had done wonders for the texture, finally allowing it to behave like hair rather than a direct reflection of her emotional state. Still, high emotions (and humidity) often had it curling, frizzing, and generally behaving more like wool roving than hair.

She hears the shower shut off upstairs, a signal that there’s still a few minutes before Neville returns. She pokes around a bit, inspecting his home and admiring the more attractive of his houseplants. Which is why she sees the shopping bag on the entry table, recognizes the distinctive _Tomes & Scrolls_ book-leaf tissue paper and wanders over to investigate.

“None of that now,” she hears and spins around with an innocent expression plastered on her face.

Neville’s reappeared, red cheeked with his hair neatly combed and he looks—

“Did you get a haircut?” she asks, eyeing the sharp cut in front of his ears.

“Ah,” he says, and scrubs a hand over his hair, thoroughly ruining all his efforts to tame it. “Well, yes, perhaps.”

“And are those perhaps new trousers?” she drawls, amusement and fondness rising up to add to the fluttering ball of attraction she’s got nestled in her chest.

“Might be,” he hedges, a blush rising on his cheeks.

“Well,” she drawls, “I think you look quite handsome.”

The blush deepens, and she bites back a smile.

“So why can’t I peek in the bag, hm?” she flirts.

“Because,” he tells her with a bashful smile, flirting back and walking over to where she’s standing so he can finger a lock of her hair. “I’m going to give it to you tomorrow, when I show up at your office around one to ask you to lunch. We’ll eat and then I’ll give you your belated birthday gift, so you’re happy and distracted. Then I’m going to ask you out on a date whilst you’re in a good mood and more likely to say ‘yes.’”

“Clever,” she purrs, smiling up at him. “But what if I want my belated birthday gift now?”

“Too bad,” he quips. “You’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”

“Fine,” she retorts. “Then I suppose I’ll have to wait until our date to ask you to come to a party with me.”

“Suppose so,” he hums softly, and kisses her.

 

“It’s just so _sensible,_ ” says Neville for at least the fourth time.

“I know,” agrees Hermione, bumping his arm with her shoulder. “I think British wizarding money must be the most ridiculous, absurd… _ludicrous_ thing about the magical world, and I’m including the fact that you all drink pumpkin juice year-round and that the Ministry didn’t even have an official _taxation office_ until last year.”

“It’s so _light_ ,” continues Neville, still enthralled. “And _easy._ ”

She had taken him out for Thai food because a) Neville had never had it before b) she was sick of pub food c) she didn’t want their first night out together to be overshadowed by gossiping witches and wizards and d) she was trying to save a few quid after her drinks at the _Goblin,_ lunch at the _Leaky_ and impulse shopping for Neville.

Neville had been delighted, and an enchanting dinner partner. She’d ordered for them, selecting Tom Yum soup, fried rice with prawns, Pad Thai and a satay to ease his transition into trying an entirely new cuisine. He’d tried everything politely, devolved into a bumbling compliments to the chef when the melon desert was brought out with the bill, and then been gobsmacked when it came time to pay and Hermione had pulled out the colorful, base-ten paper bills (and change).

Hermione had laughed at his wonder, and taken him for ice cream. She’d handed over her wallet and helped him count out the money and their change, giggling when he marveled over QEII’s portrait printed on the ten-pound bill.

He’s never spent time amongst Muggles, Hermione learns during their first not-date. She had known he was homeschooled by a series of grandmother-approved private tutors (and had lived in almost total isolation from other children until he’d matriculated into Hogwarts), but she hadn’t realized how divorced from the world he’d really been.

Not until these past two years, he tells her, has he lived anywhere other than Rowan Abbey. He’d spent a brief season attending Auror training the summer the war ended, before he decided abruptly that the MLE wasn’t for him. And then he’d applied for his apprenticeship with Professor Sprout, been accepted, and moved into one of the Hogsmeade cottages left empty after the war.

Hermione keeps her thoughts to herself. From the legacy of his parents’ illness, to his upbringing, to his leadership of the Hogwarts rebellion during the war, she’s not surprised by his career choices. Is it any wonder Neville has found more peace, pleasure and fulfillment studying for his Mastery than fighting again and again? Of course not. Even she never meant to become anything like a resistance fighter – had only fallen into the role to support Harry and stand against Voldemort and his Death Eaters.

Their not-date, he reveals bashfully, is the first time he’s ever spent any measurable time talking to Muggles.

And it’s a pleasure, introducing him to her home world.

It’s Monday evening, crisp and cool, and they walk the streets of Birmingham side-by-side. Because of her neighborhood, there’re university students everywhere (they’re _our age_ , she realizes belatedly when a group of girls pass them cackling in drunken good humor), so they pass heaps of late-night coffee shops, cheap curry places, and entirely too many pubs and clubs.

“I don’t suppose you want to go dancing,” says Neville doubtfully at one point. They’re passing a club with a queue out the door, and Neville’s skeptical stare is taking in the men in baggy jeans and women freezing in their minuscule halter tops and micro minis.

“No,” Hermione laughs, and drags him into a used bookstore instead.

It’s mostly college texts, but there’s a decent fiction section. Hermione shows him around, contemplating buying him a copy of _A Game of Thrones_ , which she quite liked even though it was a little _too_ realistic in some parts.

“Have you ever heard of a ‘gulag?’” he asks quietly at one point, and then she’s helping him sort through the history books and asking the staff for their recommendations.

“Each historian has their own perspective and agenda,” narrates the crotchety old man who helps them. “You always need to take your reading with a grain of salt,” he continues and then recommends two books, one about the Second World War and the other covering the rise and fall of the Soviets. Hermione buys both for Nev, waving away his promises that he’ll repay her.

“I never realized,” says Neville later, as they page through their purchases over tea in one of the coffee shops. He’s been sifting through the used textbook on the War, staring at the pictures that can only hint at the full horrors man can create.

“Magic or no,” Hermione tells him and reaches out to squeeze the hand hovering over a photo of Buchenwald, “humans can commit unspeakable evil.”

“Hermione,” says Neville and stares at her with a terrible look in his eyes. “I don’t know that I could do it again.”

“I know,” she says, her voice breaking. “I don’t think I could, either.”

Neville closes his book and places a kiss on her palm, and they’re raw and quiet for some time afterward as they finish their tea and start walking back towards her flat.

Hermione tumbles the locks of her door, disengaging the wards with the ensorcelled key and a whispered passphrase. She puts their leftovers away in the fridge, drops her new book – a used copy of To Say Nothing of the Dog – on the coffee table, and sets about filling Crook’s dish so he’ll cease pestering her.

That done, she turns and finds Neville hovering awkwardly in the entryway.

“So,” he says hesitantly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“You will,” she says, and then steps into his space, meeting his eyes. “You’ll see me when you come pick me up for lunch.”

“Right,” he says, and smiles a little woodenly, shifting his weight to the other leg. “Right.”

“You can also,” she continues, “see me tomorrow morning when we wake up, if you like.”

“Ah,” he says, searching her gaze.

“I had a _wonderful_ time tonight, Neville,” she tells him, pulling at his wrists so she can clasp his hands in hers. “I can’t tell you how lovely it was, spending time with you like this. I really, ah,” pauses, flicking her eyes up from his hands and looking down before she loses her nerve, “I really like _you_ , and I want you to know that I will say ‘yes’ when you ask me to dinner. And I really like, umm, what we did together…” _God_ , she’s a grown woman who survived _torture_ but she can’t talk about sex with the man she had it with.

“…but,” she stumbles on, “I think I’d really enjoy going to sleep tonight. And if you’d like to stay here, and sleep, I’d enjoy that and would welcome you. But I understand if you’d like to go home and spend some time in your own place, too,” she finishes in a rush.

“Her—Hermione,” he says, sort of brokenly. “I never thought…In my wildest dreams, I didn’t think we’d ever have a conversation like this. I’m just me, and you’re _you_.”

“No—” she starts, but he continues on.

“No, listen. I _really_ like you, Hermione. You were my first real friend, you know? Since the minute I stepped on the train, and you helped me, I’ve thought the world of you. You never make me feel small, or stupid, even when I was a kid and at the center of every mishap and accident. I don’t know if this – you and me – ever would have happened, except accidentally, with the tea…” He trails off, and then frees a hand from hers so he can tilt her chin up and make her meet his eyes.

“I don’t want to muck this up,” he whispers. “I don’t want to miss this opportunity. I want a chance with you, Hermione, a real one.”

“Will you stay, then, and sleep with – just sleep – with me?” she asks, small and hopeful and feeling very vulnerable.

“Yes. Oh, yes,” he says and kisses her and for some reason she’s fighting tears.

“Good,” she tells him, cradling his cheeks. “I’m so glad, Neville. I’m so _happy,_ ” she whispers.

“Me, too,” he says back, forehead pressed to hers. “Me, too.”


	4. Four

She wakes in the morning to the bright light of her sunrise globe. It’s a little charm she invented – setting the fog of a Divination crystal alight for twenty minutes every time her clock hits 6:15. It’s the nicest version of an alarm clock she’s found, even if it does go off in the evening.

“Mmmm,” Neville grumbles behind her. “Bright.”

Hermione turns over so she can take him in, spread underneath her pink ruffled quilt on his back. He’s wearing the white cotton undershirt and blue boxers she bought him yesterday at H&M (“They’re awfully _tight_ ,” he’d called incredulously through the closed bathroom door when she’d sent him in to try on the shirts and pants. “They’re _supposed_ to be,” she told him. “They’re boxer-briefs – they’re supposed to stretch and, um, support.”).

He looks _splendid_ , gilded with the light from her lamp and long limbs spread out across her bed.

“Morning, Nev,” she says, and cups his stubbly cheek in her hand.

“Morning,” he says, slitting his eyes open and smiling his crooked grin at her. “You’re looking lovely,” he adds, lying through his teeth. She can _feel_ her hair haloed around her, and she knows perfectly well she looks absurd.

“ _Liar_ ,” she retorts, and leans forward to kiss him.

“No,” he protests sleepily. “You’re gold all over,” and then he reaches forward to pull her into his chest for a deep, wet kiss that tastes like morning breath.

She doesn’t mind one bit.

“I’m going to be late,” she tells him several minutes later. The window in her bedroom is still dark – the sun won’t rise for another half-hour at least.

“ _Liar,_ ” he scolds, and pulls her back for a peck. “I’ll bet your coworkers don’t come in until nine-thirty.” And then he snogs her like her mouth doesn’t taste like death.

“Well,” she replies breathlessly a while later. “Nine. I suppose I have a minute or two.”

“Mmmm,” he hums into her neck. “Thought so.”

“ _Shhhhhit_ ,” he hisses ten or twelve minutes later as she rocks over his erection. They’ve still got their sleepwear on – him in his blue boxers and she in her shorts set and knickers – and the friction of the cotton against her sensitive folds is driving her _mad._

“Hermione, _please_ ,” he whines as she rakes her nails down his chest.

“‘Please,’ what? Use your words, Neville,” she teases, skimming her palms back up to his collarbone so she can drive him crazy all over again.

“ _No_ ,” he says forcefully, and bucks and flips them so she’s pinned underneath and sweet _Jesus_ his mouth feels good sucking and biting her neck.

“ _Neville_ ,” she moans. “Oh, _God…_ ”

He’s got his fingers up the leg of her shorts and is pushing the gusset of her knickers aside, rubbing tiny circles over her clit and _driving her insane._

“What is it, darling?” he goads, right into the shell of her ear, gusting hot breath over the sensitive flesh so she’s forced to buck her hips into his hand and release the most humiliating keening noise.

“God, I want your _cock_ ,” she begs finally, tired of the game he’s playing. He’s teasing and touching and pulling away right when she gets the rhythm right. “Neville, please. _Please_ …”

“Again,” he demands. “ _Tell me_.”

“I want you,” she chants. “Please, I want your cock. Please fuck me, please, Nev, please.”

“Her- _mione_ ,” he groans, shoving her shorts and knickers down. “Fuck!”

“Pleasepleaseplease,” she begs and then shouts, “Yes!” right into his ear like a lunatic when he finally sinks into her.

“So good. You feel _so good,_ love,” he praises as he rocks into her.

“Oh, you’re so _deep_ ,” she raves, like she’s being paid to compliment him instead of just being a woman reduced to her basest desires. “God, you’re so big, you feel _so good_.”

“Fuck,” he says and nips her breast, hunched over in a position she might think looks uncomfortable except it feels _amazing_ and she’ll murder him if he moves.

She can’t spread her legs – her clothes are still pinning them together, and Neville’s legs are spread across hers so that he’s pumping through the crease of her thighs before plunging into her pussy and she can’t move – _she can’t push back_. She bleeds off her frenetic energy by raking her hands up and down his back, clutching his head to her tits and his arse to her groin, and marking up his skin with violent red parallel streaks. He feels _huge_ and deep, and she can feel the stretch of his penetration with each pass of his cock. His body is covering hers, pinning her in place, and somehow it makes her feel so _tiny_ and so treasured.

“Hermione, love. Love, I’m going to come,” he pants above her, catching her mouth up into a kiss.

She whines into the kiss because she’s _close_ , but it’s not going to happen, she’s not going to come with him. But at the same time, she viscerally wants him to come without her, to spend himself in her and make her his. To lay _her_ claim on _him_ as the woman who drove him over the brink, so that he’s sure to come back to her again and again, every night and every day.

“Do it,” she encourages him, biting at his earlobe and licking into the shell, digging her nails into the small of his back and his arse so that he’s gasping and pounding her into her mattress. The springs of the mattress and the joints of the frame are squeaking and creaking, and it’s sort of hilarious but mostly it’s just plain _hot_.

“Come, Neville. Come in me, please. Please, love,” she asks, pulling back so she can look him straight in the eyes. His face is red and damp and almost feral looking, but his gaze locks on hers and his groan resonates within her, and she shoves a palm between them to dig the heel into her lower belly, and she bears down hard on his cock. She’s making herself as small and tight as possible, and she can _feel it_ when his orgasm starts.

“Fffffu– _fuck_ ,” he gasps, face wrecked and gaze pinned to hers. He drives into her hard for several beats and then collapses atop her with his cock still twitching between her come-slicked thighs.

“Sssshhh,” she croons into his ear. “So good, darling, you were so good.”

“Oh, _Merlin, Hermione_ ” he groans and presses soft kisses to her shoulder. He becomes a hot, boneless weight pressing her into the mattress and making it a bit hard to breathe.

“Just a minute,” he tells her several minutes later when he rolls off and pulls out, making her feel empty and unfulfilled.

“Alright,” he rallies, jerking them both awake. The clock says 7:15 and she was half-asleep in the pre-dawn light of morning, cuddled into his boneless weight even though her pussy is still swollen and her nipples still hard.

“Nev,” she whispers, scandalized. “What do you think _you’re doing?”_

“Gotta make you come,” he says determinedly, kneeling over her and pulling her shorts and knickers off and throwing them to the floor.

“What? No—”

But Neville isn’t listening and it’s _so good_. He’s shoved his face into her cunt, so her legs are spread up over his shoulders and his nose is buried right into her clit and he’s sucking and pulling and shoving his tongue into her entrance.

_Ohmygod_ , her brain stumbles, _he’s eating our come,_ and her entire body spasms with the thought.

“Nev,” she pants just a few minutes later, “Nev please, please.” She’s got her fingers buried in his freshly shorn locks, just a little too short to really pull on and it’s so good but she needs something _more._

“You have to wait, Hermione,” he admonishes, smiling up at her and dropping a kiss onto the inside of her thigh, licking at the wetness coating it. His face is shiny with their fluids and it’s _so fucking hot_. “I’ve got to blow your mind.”

_Did I shave yesterday?_ she wonders absently and she drags her calves over his back and squeezes down, digging her heels into his back to keep him locked in place.

“ _Please_ ,” she begs a bit later, too sensitive and unhinged to make any sense at all.

“Whatever you need, sweetheart,” he assures, and resumes sucking her clit and sliding his fingers in and out of her needy pussy. “More?” he asks breathlessly a minute later. “Harder?”

“ _More,”_ she bawls, shoving her hips up at his face.

And then he’s slid up her body, biting into her tit gently and tonguing her nipple while his hand feverishly twists two fingers into her pussy and the other squeezes his thumb into her arse.

“I’m going to fuck your arse someday,” he threatens darkly, looking up to meet her lust-blind stare. “And you’re going to fucking _love it_ ,” and _holy shit_.

Hermione comes apart at the seams. She is nerves only – no form, no thought, no history. There’s only the stuttering, spasming electrical current of her nervous system, driven into shutdown by Neville’s mouth and fingers.

_Fuck._

“Fuck,” she whispers hoarsely into his neck sometime later, finally uncurling her toes. “Neville, you’re _cruel_.”

“Good?” he asks, sliding his palms up and down her sweaty back in smooth caresses as she blankets him with her body.

“The best,” she breathes, and kisses his shoulder in exhaustion and surrender.

 

.:.

 

“Darling, it’s nearly eight,” he whispers and cards his fingers through her hair. “I’ve got to get up, and so do you, I imagine.”

“Wha—?” she queries, craning her head to look at the nightstand.

“Oh, god,” she moans. “Crooks, _move_ ,” says and shoves his fluffy orange bum out of her face so she can get a look at the black and white numerals of her cheap Ikea clock. “ _Late_ ,” she groans. “I don’t have any time for one, but I need a shower.”

“Ha,” he laughs. “You certainly do.”

“Stop,” she warns, rolling over to the edge so she can sit drunkenly with her feet on the freezing floor. “Not fair.”

“Very fair,” he hums, kissing the hot skin of her shoulder. “I’m a bit ripe myself.”

_“Fine,_ ” she allows. “But I’m warning you, my shower is _tiny_.”

“Stop,” he teases. “I don’t have time for that.”

They don’t end up sharing a shower, partly because she’s not yet ready for that level of intimacy and partly because her bathroom truly is minuscule. She goes first, and then retreats to her bedroom to manage her hair and get dressed while he soaps up. She gets him a fresh towel before he goes in, and he pulls her into his hips and kisses her long and hard at the bathroom doorway.

“Enough of that,” he says is a deep, rasping voice. “You shouldn’t start something you don’t have time to finish.” And then he squeezes her arse and shoves her gently away, shutting the door in her face.

So perhaps she was ogling him a bit, standing there naked in her flat. So sue her.

“I like this,” he tells her, rubbing the fabric of her oxblood robes between thumb and forefinger when he comes out, dressed in a clean undershirt and a pair of green boxer-briefs. “It makes you look, hmm, _fierce_.”

“I like these,” she replies, and runs the flat of her palm up the fabric of his boxer-briefs – up the thigh opposite of where she can see his penis outlined by the soft knit. “It makes me think of your cock.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” he tells her, laughing. “Not fair.”

“Sorry,” she murmurs into his mouth, kissing him and completely unrepentant.

“ _Liar,_ ” he says into hers, catching and nipping at her lower lip.

“Perhaps,” she teases. “What are you going to do about it?”

“You’ll see,” he replies and _Christ_ , does she have time to change her knickers?

“I’m going to be late,” she says a little later, when they’re standing in her entryway. Neville’s dressed in his trousers and jumper from last night (and fresh undergarments, thanks to her), and she’s in her Tuesday outfit of oxblood robes, gray wool pencil skirt, white Oxford, and tall black socks with black patent penny loafers.

“Are these those socks?” he questions instead, running a hand down towards her hem.

“ _Stop it_ ,” she hisses, slapping his hand away.

“But, ‘Mione,” he whines into her mouth, mouthing her lips and making her belly clench.

“ _No_ , enough,” she insists, and then adds wickedly, “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

“ _Merciful Morrigan_ ,” he whimpers, and kisses her gracelessly.

“Out,” she insists. “Out, out, out. We’re going to be late.”

“ _Fuck,_ ” he groans, leaning against the wall opposite as he watches her lock up. “I’ll see you at one?”

“I’ll be expecting you,” she assures him, stippling his lips with several brief, sweet kisses.

“And you’d _better_ have my present,” she threatens.

“Maybe I will,” he teases, “maybe I won’t. You’ll have to wait to see if you’ve earned it.”

“Please,” she huffs, turning away and heading towards the door to the fire stairs at the end of the hallway. “Like I haven’t earned it.”

“Have you?” he baits behind her, the sharp _tack tack tack_ of their shoes clattering in the stairwell as they make their way out to the back alley so they can Disapparate to their respective destinations.

“Yes,” she insists once the fire door has closed behind them. And then she catches his mouth with hers and snogs him breathless, parting with a nip to his lower lip. “I have,” and then she slaps _his_ bum and Disapparates.

 

.:.

 

“Alright,” she says hours later as they sit down with their meals. “I’ve got to ask you something, and I want you to know I’m not judging you – this is purely academic.”

“Bloody hell,” Neville replies, pulling his tray from under his lunch plate and stacking it under hers so they have more room at the tiny table. “That’s not ominous at all, is it?”

“Shut up,” she laughs.

As it turns out, Neville hadn’t had the opportunity to come ask her to lunch at her desk – she’d run into him in the lift instead when Shafiq had made her carry – _hand carry_ , as if there weren’t an entire staff of porters and admins whose job it was to do tasks like that – a report up to the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee. He’d been on his way to her floor to meet up, so it was a fortunate coincidence they’d run into each other.

“Neville,” she’d said with surprise when she saw him at the back of the crowded elevator. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Just finished up my annual report,” he said, sending her a smile over the shoulder of a prune-faced old wizard carrying a worryingly jumping sack. “For my apprenticeship, you know. Have to submit progress reports – and annual fees – to the Confederation to keep on track. Thought I’d pop up and see if you’d like to get lunch a bit early.”

“Oh,” she’d replied, smiling. “I’d like that. Just let me drop these off and then I’ll clock out. Meet me in the Atrium in ten minutes.”

“Alright,” he’d smiled back.

They probably looked like idiots, she thought, with all this grinning going on.

She’d ducked out of the lift when it reached the third floor, beaming at him through the closing doors until his face disappeared. Then she’d hustled to deposit the stacks of parchment on the proper desk, clocked out and retrieved her bag, and then crammed into the lifts so she could meet him in the Atrium.

He’d picked one of the little cafes that catered to Ministry employees in the still-recovering Diagon Alley, a nice public spot for a casual lunch with a friend. They’d each paid for their own meals, spending their time in the queue sharing the events of their days.

All in all, it’s a very innocuous meal.

Perhaps she would have read into that if she hadn’t seen the handle of her gift bag poking out of his business-formal robes or if his kiss of greeting in the Atrium hadn’t lingered a bit too long over her cheek.

“I have to know,” she continues now, blowing a cooling breath over her spoonful of pumpkin soup. “What’s the deal with your dog?”

“My dog?” he echoes in surprise. “What about the dog?”

“ _That_ ,” she says, pointing the utensil at him. “That’s all you ever call it – ‘the dog.’ What’s the dog’s name? What did it do last night when, you know…” she trails off, blushing.

“You worried I’m neglecting my animals?” he teases, grinning crookedly. “Think my Trevor years have ruined me for responsible pet ownership?”

“ _Neville_ ,” she reproaches with exasperation. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Alright, alright,” he laughs at her. “I’ll tell you about the dog,” and then he takes a massive bite from his sandwich and holds a finger up in a _just a moment_ gesture while he chews and chews and _chews._

_“You!_ ” she cries, throwing a bit of bread at him.

Neville holds a hand over his mouth while his shoulders shake in suppressed laughter, finally taking a sip of water to clear his throat.

“Too easy,” he says, wiping at his mouth with a napkin. It’s so _nice_ to eat with a man with basic table manners. Beloved as they are, Harry and Ron are _savages_ at mealtimes.

“Alright, no really!” he exclaims, warding off her threatening gesture. “To tell you the truth, I think the dog might be a bit fae. She just showed up one day after I’d moved in – came right inside and laid in front the fireplace, all covered in mud and fleas and ticks. But, I swear, Hermione, she can walk through walls because the doors were all shut. I _checked_.

“I came in, saw her laying there and thought, ‘Right, she’s probably some person’s pet, someone who maybe didn’t make it through the war. Maybe old Timmons’ dog’ – the man who owned the cottage before me, you know. And I couldn’t bloody well kick her back out into the snow, so I petted her a bit and told her she could stay but she’d need a bath. And, I swear on the Founders, Hermione – the mud just crumbled right off. Made a little pile on the rug.”

“Stop it,” Hermione gasps.

“No, it’s true,” Neville insists. “I did have to delouse her, but that’s only a charm, you know, so she seemed fine with that. And then – I was a bit rattled, you see – I asked her if she had a name and she gave me this _look_ , like ‘Of course I do, you lackwit,’ but I haven’t been able to guess it and it’s not like she comes when I holler for her anyway.

“She’s uncanny. Sometimes I won’t see her for a full week. But she always comes back, and she’s never brought mud into the house again. She doesn’t even shed – I told her if she could keep the mud outside, could she please keep the hair out, too? And she shakes right outside the door when she comes in and when she leaves and this absolute _cloud_ of hair comes off.

“Wish she could teach Crookshanks that trick,” Hermione cries. “How could a dog have control of when it sheds hair?”

“Merlin if I know,” Neville replies, dipping his sandwich in her soup. “I got her a warded collar – to stop her bringing in fleas and such, make sure she doesn’t fall preggers – and bought her some food. You know, she’ll go right into the garden and dig up whatever she wants to snack on? Apples right off the tree. That’s why all the lower branches are bare.

“And she’s been around ever since,” he finishes, and takes a (reasonably sized) bite.

“Where does she go when she’s away, do you think?” asks Hermione, riveted.

Neville shrugs, swallowing. “The Forest, maybe. I think she’s a cross from the wolves – you know, the pack that got started by that werewolf couple? – and maybe a deerhound? She’s terribly clever. No one else in town seems to know anything about her, at least – say she showed up for the first time last year.”

“How bizarre,” she says, pondering. “But then – if she can go through doors – why are you always letting her out?”

“Oh, _that_ ,” says Neville, rolling his eyes. “She’s the most contrary thing. I’m _sure_ she can go through doors, or walls, or _something_. But she _insists_ that I let her in and out if she knows I’m home. She will sit there and yip at me – you would not believe how high her bark is for such a massive dog – until I get up and let her out. And then she’ll yip to be let back in. But I’ll turn around sometimes, and she’s right there begging for some cheese and I _know_ she wasn’t inside a moment ago. And when I’m running maybe ten minutes late, I’ll find she’s already eating her dinner, even though I never poured it out for her.

“Ridiculous dog,” he mutters fondly.

“Neville,” she smiles. “You’ve found the perfect pet – you can’t possibly lose a dog that isn’t yours to begin with.”

“Right?” he agrees with a smile in his eyes, and then they chat for the rest of their meal in the most delightful, easy-going conversation.

“Alright,” he tells her when he returns from bussing their trays with two hot teas. “I suppose it’s time to give you your gift.”

“ _Finally_ ,” she tells him. “Gimme, gimme.”

Neville extracts the bag from his robes, and it’s a bit crushed but still _very_ promising looking, sitting there on the tiny table. Hermione hefts it to check the weight, then pulls out the book-leaf tissue paper and carefully sets it aside.

“ _Merlin,_ ” Neville ribs her, “you’re one of _those_ people.”

“It shows appreciation to the giver,” sniffs Hermione in her swottiest voice, and then carefully unwraps the book-like object.

It’s a set of three indexaskins, the nicer ones with the full-grain leather bindings and the dedicated over-writeable search pages, with another where you can create your own shorthand and key.

“To replace the one you, ah,” he blushes, “sacrificed to my, erm, research project.”

“Neville,” she trails off, blushing herself and her stomach all fluttery. “Thank you.”

“There’s something, else, too. A bit of a souvenir-cum-belated-birthday-gift,” and then he blushes redder.

Hermione carefully sets aside the notebooks, and reaches back into the bag. Her hand finds a last paper-wrapped object, very light and slightly squishy.

_“Neville_ ,” she whispers when she has it unwrapped. The ball blushes pink and then streaks of color start shooting through the fiber – green, teal, magenta, aqua, violet – fading as she stops rolling it between her palms.

“It’s ghost mammoth wool,” he tells her. “I told you I spent a lot of time with the elders, going out with them while they hunted and gathered. In the spring, the wild herds push through the trees, shedding their undercoat. Collecting the wool from the high branches is something that the older generation spends quite a bit off effort collecting – keeps them busy exercising, you know, but it’s easy on their bodies. And so I’d go out and they’d tell me about the plants we saw, and then I started collecting the wool, too, because I know you like to make things and I thought it was awfully pretty and unusual.

“One of the Aunties, she spun it up into yarn for me. I thought you could make a, what do you call them, a loop scarf or a hat or something from it. Do you like it?” he trails off.

“It’s _gorgeous_ ,” she tells him. It’s pearl gray now that she isn’t turning it in her hands, but the second she rolls it, the fibers start reflecting light like she’s looking right at the aurora.

“I’m glad,” says Neville, clearly pleased.

“It’s so _soft_ ,” she says, rubbing her cheek into the skein. “I think it’s softer than cashmere. Neville, this is too much. God, how much would this even cost?” she wonders.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Hermione,” Neville says fondly. “I collected it, and the Aunties taught me how to clean and card it, and Auntie Aggie spun it after I couldn’t get the knack. You would not believe the teasing I got, hanging out with the old women, making up yarn for my girl back home.

“Not that I meant—” he stumbles. “Not that I was thinking you’d be, you now, _my_ girl. I mean, they thought that I’d only be doing this for a girl who was my girl. I tried to explain, but—”

“Neville,” says Hermione. “I _love it_.”

She loves it _so much_. It feels so personal, not like the books or the candy or the flowers or candles she usually gets as gifts. He’s indulging her hobby, her need to create beautiful things, and not deriding it as an old-lady thing, or joking about ugly sweaters the way everyone else does.

And he _made_ it for her, collecting each hank of wool by hand and picking it clean, long before they ever kissed or drank that stupid tea.

“‘Mione, darling,” asks Neville. “Are you alright? You’re not crying, are you?”

“No,” she protests, but her face is hot and her eyes are wet enough that it might happen. “Maybe, but they’re happy—”

“Bloody hell,” she hears, “Good thinking, getting a table before I showed up. This place is a nightmare!”

“Ron?” says Hermione, “what—?”

“Neville, hiya mate, good to see you,” blusters her friend, clapping a hand onto Neville’s shoulder as he sets down his tray. “‘Mione, hi, all right?” he adds, bussing her cheek absentmindedly.

“Ron, hey mate,” returns Neville, throwing a wide-eyed glance at Hermione.

_I don’t know_ , she mouths at him while Ron grabs a chair from another table and settles down.

“Haven’t got a minute,” continues the redhead only seconds after scarfing down his first bite. “You wouldn’t _believe_ the morning I’ve hard – pass the salt, will you? Glad you didn’t wait on me. You see the paper today? Did you know that rag’s decided _I’m_ the most interesting thing Britain needs to know about? It’s absurd – I’ve been dodging me mum all day and – can you believe? – she sent me a Howler, just like I was still at Hogwarts.” He takes a massive bite and mumbles something that’s probably _Unbelievable,_ although it comes out mostly _Ummffafaaafaffa._

_“Ron_ ,” Hermione interrupts his diatribe. “What _are_ you going on about?”

“ _This_ ,” he replies, digging into the pocket of his robes and retrieving, in turn, his regulation Auror notebook, several blank MLE-A-406 forms (crumpled), a stubby self-inking quill, his Floo powder pouch, and an ash-covered front page from today’s _Daily Prophet_.

Hermione has to unfold the paper several times before she can read the article. The above-the-fold headline is:

_Weasley Enchants – War Hero Caught Casting for Love_

And then there’s a picture – grainy and laggy, like it was taken with a bad camera – of Ron standing in the doorway to the _Leaky_ , repeatedly helping Katie Bell into her cloak.

Below that, a twenty-paragraph article ( _cont’d on p. 9_ , says the last line) fills the space below the photograph. Hermione quickly scans it, deciding at a glance that it’s 90% lies, misdirection, and wild supposition – factual only in the merest details ( _the redheaded wizard_ is pretty hard to argue with).

“You want to know how long I spent with Katie last night?” asks Ron, shoving a crumb-covered finger into the picture. “ _Three minutes_. I saw her leaving when I came in, said ‘hi,’ and helped her into her cloak. Then she left, and I met up with Seamus at the bar. I’m telling you, people have gone,” he waves a chip in the air evocatively, “stark raving mad with all this post-war romance stuff. It’s absurd.”

“Goodness,” says Neville.

“I _know_ ,” says Ron, taking a massive bite and hardly chewing before he swallows it down. “I don’t even want to talk about my mum – ever since Fleur gave birth, she’s seeing babies around every corner. Poor Charlie’s scuttled back to Romania before she tries to marry him off, no matter he’s A. I can’t hardly talk about work without her asking ‘ _Who’s Rochester? Is she a witch? Is she single?’_ ” he mocks in a falsetto. “I’m like, _No, Mum. Rochester is a wizard wanted on four counts of illegal potions brewing and conspiring to overthrow the government._

_“_ And these damn insta-cams are making being a normal wizard bloody well impossible. Every time I go to the loo I worry someone’s going to pull out his pocket camera and snap a picture. Must’ve been what happened with Katie, innit? Certainly didn’t see any bloke behind a tripod when I said ‘goodbye.’ You know, just in the past month, I’ve heard I’m dating Hermione,” he ticks off on his fingers, “dating Susan, cheating on Parvati with Hermione, cheating on Brooks – she’s an Auror – with Donne – also an Auror, and she’s dating Brooks, and,” his voice breaks with horror, “engaged to _Luna Lovegood_ , _can you believe._ ”

“That’s awful,” commiserates Neville.

“Sure is,” agrees Ron. “I’m telling you, Nev, I’m thinking about getting _constant vigilance_ tattooed right on the back of my hand. Can’t hardly be in the same room with a woman anymore.”

“You poor thing,” says Hermione and it’s only a little bit sarcastic. If Ron hadn’t interrupted their lunch, she’d be rightly furious on his behalf if even half of what he’s said is true.

“Nev’s escaped the worst of it, what with being stuck at Hogwarts and spending so much time away. But you’d best keep and eye out, because you, my friend, are _next_.”

“I certainly hope not,” says Neville with wide eyes, and Hermione quirks her lips up at him.

“Come off it,” says Ron. Hermione can plainly see that bullish, sly look in his eyes that distinctly reminds her of his sister. “You telling me your gran hasn’t been pressuring you to find a nice witch, get married. Make a whole brood of little Longbottoms?”

“Ah, I mean, well…” Neville trails off, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck and tugging at the collar of his robes. “I _am_ still a student.”

“Not like that’s going to stop Augusta Longbottom, though, is it?” asks Ron, shrewdly. “Bet you’re under a ton of pressure from family to get busy—”

“You all finished, Ronald?” asks Hermione loudly, pulling his tray away from him and standing up abruptly. “Don’t want to be LATE back to WORK.”

“Oh, sure,” agrees Ron amiably, even though there’s still half of his sandwich left on the plate. “Tons to do – hardly got anything done this morning. Because of family pressure and societal expectations and all. Best head back. Walk back to the Floo with us, Neville?”

“Yes, sure,” says Neville, and pushes his chair in while Hermione hands the tray to Ron so he can bus and she can repack her presents.

“I’m so sorry,” she says in an undertone to Neville before Ron rejoins them. “I don’t know _what_ he’s doing.”

Ron slings an arm over Neville’s shoulders (although it can’t be comfortable – Neville’s several inches taller than him) saying, “Now I know we haven’t got time to go into it just yet, so we’re going to have to go out soon, but you’ve got to tell me about your trip, mate.”

They leave the cafe and head to the bank of Floo fireplaces that have gone in during the rebuilding of Diagon Alley, Ron monopolizing Neville’s conversation the entire time.

_It’s almost_ , she thinks sourly as she trails behind them, _like Ron doesn’t think lichens are ‘dead boring._ ’

_“_ Great seeing you, Neville. Can’t wait to catch up for real when we’ve got more time. Here you are, Hermione,” he says clapping a heap of Floo powder in her hand. “Best be off, running late, you know.”

And Hermione barely has time to kiss Neville’s cheek before Ron’s pushing her into the Floo with a shouted “Ministry of Magic.”

“We have _got_ to talk,” says Ron when he steps out of the fireplace next to hers.

“ _We certainly do_ ,” she menaces with narrowed eyes.

“Over here,” he says, and leads the way to a little door next to the entry to the Magical Maintenance Office.

“ _What_ , Ronald,” she hisses once he’s shut the door, “ _was that?”_

“You have _got_ to be more careful, ‘Mione,” he scolds instead of answering her. “You carry on like that, and you’re going to be headlining the _Prophet_ and shoved down the aisle by some wizarding family faster than you can say ‘I do.’”

“What are you _talking_ about?” Hermione half-shouts in exasperation.

“I’m not joking, Hermione. People have gone _insane_. Now Neville’s a good bloke, and I don’t think he’d do anything – he hasn’t done anything, has he? Because I’ll believe you,” Ron interrupts himself, “and then I’ll _kill him_.”

“Ronald, will you _listen_ to yourself? What are you saying?”

“Right,” he forges ahead, bulling over her in an increasingly manic voice. “Neville is probably alright, but his grandmum’s mad and the rest of Britain is going bonkers right along with her.”

“Listen, Ron,” she interrupts.

But Ron isn’t having any of it.

“ _No_ ,” he says forcefully. “You listen.

“That stuff with the _Prophet_? It’s nothing,” he swipes a hand through his hair. “I can’t say ‘hi’ to a witch without being romantically linked to her, I suspect someone from the gossip mags is following me around trying to get pictures, and I’m pretty sure the last witch I chatted up spiked my Dragon Scale with a WonderWitch lust potion. But that’s small potatoes,” he dismisses, even though it _isn’t_. Hermione can _feel_ herself getting madder as he continues, mad at him and _furious_ at these people who are harassing him and _worse_.

“‘Mione,” he continues, holding her gaze and dead earnest. “You know how many cases of assault I’ve dealt with in the past month? _Six_. I’ve disenchanted four different people from love and lust spells, and gone to St. Mungo’s to collect evidence in five different rape cases. Kingsley told Harry there’s been so many compelled marriages, he’s drafting a bill to require a disenchantment and mind-restoring protocol before anyone’s allowed to marry.

“There’s a shortage of fertility potion ingredients, too. People are _insane_.”

“Are you worried about me?” she asks in a small, wondering voice.

“Bloody hell, of _course_ I’m worried about you, Hermione,” Ron exclaims, pulling her into a hug and speaking in an undertone into her ear. “The press, the gossip, it’s fucking _awful_. These bastards have been hounding me ever since Harry and Gin got engaged – _don’t say a word_ about it, I don’t want Harry feeling guilty about that, _too_ – and I’m pretty sure you’re next. Brightest witch, and all that. But you’re strong, you can deal with that.”

He pulls back, setting her back so he can stare her in the face. “I just want to make sure that you get to do what you want – free the House Elves, find a good bloke, become Minister of Magic – whatever, _in your own time_. You shouldn’t have to deal with all this bullshit.”

“Oh, _Ron_ ,” she says, and lunges forward to pull him into a hug.

“I just don’t want you to settle, or give up your dreams, because you rushed into something, or got enchanted into something, or got trapped by a baby you didn’t plan for.” He says into her hair, squeezing her tight. “It’s not _right_ , it’s _horrible_ , and I can’t stand the thought of it happening to you.”

“It won’t, I promise I’ll be careful,” she reassures him, squeezing him back.

“And I promise I’ll do my best to put a stop to all this nonsense,” he tells her after a moment, his voice low and fierce.

“But, you should know,” Hermione starts with, and then decides that the story of the tea is maybe best saved for another day. Or, on second thought, maybe never. “You should know, Ron, that I really like Neville. A _lot_. And when he asks me on a date, I’m going to say yes.”

“Well, that’s alright,” Ron says, stepping back and scrubbing a hand over his red face. It’s making her a little teary, how fierce and worried he was just now. “Like I said, Neville’s a good bloke.”

Then he adds, immediately and in the kind of considering tone that always led to detentions and docked points back at Hogwarts. “I could cast some love spell nullifiers, just in case. I’m pretty sure I’ve got a bezoar back at the desk, too.”

“No,” Hermione reassures, clutching her gift bag to her chest, and staring at her brave, wonderful, _good_ friend. “That’s alright. It’s not that way with Neville. Not yet, anyhow.”

She pauses, makes sure to meet his eyes so he can see how much she loves and appreciates him. “Ron, you are _such_ a good man.”

“I told you, Hermione,” he says, flashing the smile that used to make her weak in the knees. “I’m a _catch_.”

 

.:.

 

The buzzer to her flat startles her out of To Say Nothing of the Dog right around seven, making her nearly spill her tea.

“Hello?” she says when she makes it to the box next her door. She’s only ever used it when she orders delivery, and she hadn’t ordered anything tonight.

“HERMIONE,” the tinny speaker shouts into ear, making her jump back a foot. “IT’S NEVILLE, NEVILLE LONGBOTTOM. I’M IN FRONT OF YOUR BUILDING.”

“Oh, _lord_ ,” she says, then depresses the button so she can answer him. “Neville, stay _right there_. I’ll be down in just a minute.”

“Hi,” he grins at her when she makes it into the foyer and opens the door for him. He’s got four plastic shopping bags with smiley faces suspended off his arms. “I never got to ask you out on a date.”

“No,” she smiles. “Hello, come in from the cold.”

She closes the door behind him and turns to face him, coming up onto her slippered toes so she can kiss him _hello_. “What have you got there?”

“Hey,” he says and kisses her again. “After lunch, I went to Gringotts and got some Muggle money. You know they charge you a fee to change your Galleons into pounds? And then they charge the Muggleborn families to change pounds into Galleons?”

“Yes,” she laughs. “That’s probably the most sensible thing Gringotts does.”

“Well,” he says doubtfully. “It doesn’t seem very fair to me, getting you coming and going like that. But anyway, I realized I never got to ask you out, so I thought I’d bring over dinner and then I could ask you out over while we eat. Like I planned.

“I asked a Muggle I met outside the _Leaky_ what he’d get his girlfriend if he were trying to butter her up, food-wise, you know, and he said sushi, so that’s what I’ve brought us. Except I also got some of the rice and things because I wasn’t sure how you felt about raw fish but you liked the Thai food alright.”

“Yes,” Hermione says, and then kisses him again.

“Yes, what?” asks Neville, arms still weighed down with take-away.

“Yes, I’ll go on a date with you. And then when you ask me if I’ll be your girlfriend, I’ll say _yes_ , too.”

“Oh,” says Neville, a smile growing across his face. “Well, I suppose the sushi must’ve worked, then.”

“Among other things,” she laughs, and kisses him again.

And again.

And again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All that's left is the epilogue! Which I will post later this week.


	5. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our story sadly comes to a happy ending and the final twist is revealed (guys, don't get too excited – it's more of a curve than a twist).

“Well, it’s the most _comfortable_ Hallowe’en costume I’ve ever worn,” says Neville as he checks his outfit in his entryway mirror. “But don’t you think we’ll get a bit warm?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she reassures him. “I plan on ditching the vest as soon as Harry sees us – he and Ron are the only ones who’ll recognize the outfits, anyhow.”

They’re dressed as Han Solo and Princess Leia, _Empire Strikes Back_ era, which means he’s wearing a jacket and she’s got a vest on and they’ll be perfectly comfortable outside _or_ in the frigid environs of 12 Grimmauld Place. She’d taken Neville to his first Muggle movie only last weekend, deciding to start him off right with an all-day marathon of the classic trilogy.

He’d been delightfully impressed, especially with the visual effects.

“I suppose we could always cast a cooling charm or two,” he adds doubtfully.

“Don’t worry,” Hermione says. “It’s a costume party. You can tell people you’re dressed as whatever comes to mind, and they’ll _have_ to believe you.”

“Hmm,” he says, and Hermione gives it up as a lost cause.

“Perdita,” she tells his dog. “Your roommate is ridiculous.”

She’d settled the no-name dog problem last week, sick of referring to the creature as ‘the dog.’ “Look,” she had said one night as she petted the insatiable beast. “I know you’ve got a name, but is it a _human_ name? One I can call you by?”

The dog had rolled her head at her, giving Hermione a speaking look.

“Well, we’ve got to call you _something_ ,” she forged on. “My parents named me after Shakespeare, and _I_ didn’t get a choice in the matter so you should feel very lucky I’m giving you any say at all. You can either be Hermione’s daughter, a lost _princess_ ,” she emphasized, “or one of the shepherdesses, Mopsa or Dorcas. What’ll it be, hmm?”

Which is how the dog became known as Perdita, or more commonly Perdy, or Pretty Perdy, or most commonly, Pretty or Pretty Girl.

“Alright, then Pretty Girl, you’re in charge,” Neville tells the dog. “We’ll be back late, so please make sure the house is still standing when we get back, alright?”

Perdita leans into Hermione’s stomach for one last scratch and doesn’t shed a single gray hair onto Hermione’s pristine white outfit.

Uncanny.

.:.

Number 12 is lit up like an American horror house when they step through the Floo into the drawing room, unrecognizable from her first visit here five years ago. It’s _clean_ , with new hangings and freshly-upholstered furniture, although someone’s gone through quite a bit of effort to add a bit of ‘spooky’ back to the decor.

“You’re right on time, thank God,” says Harry, grinning at them and coming forward for a hug. “Ginny’s been a _menace_. We had to scour everything from the kitchen up to here, and then she made us spend the last four days adding back the spider webs to ‘accentuate’ the pumpkins and the lights. Also, I think she released a boggart.”

“Naturally,” jokes Hermione, giving him a hug. “Nice costume there, Desi.”

“Thanks,” grimaces Harry, running a hand over his Brillo-creamed hairdo. “I hate wearing a suit, and no one’s going to get it even when we’re standing next to one another, which will be _never_ , and also I’m taking away the telly. Who knew she’d love _I Love Lucy_ so much?

“But I like yours, Leia, Han,” he adds smiling and giving Neville a hug. “Now, I’m stuck in here greeting people, but Ginny and Molly and Fleur are all down in the kitchen, and Bill and Arthur and George should be around somewhere, too.”

“So we should watch out for the punch?”

“Oh, yes,” agrees Harry fervently. “You should definitely avoid the punch.”

They find the men lounging around the food on the ground floor, the dining room table narrowed to make it just wide enough to host a variety of hors d’oeuvres, a large crystal punch fountain, and an assortment of wizarding and Muggle candies.

“Hello, you lovebirds,” greets George, wiggling his eyebrows. “Would you like some _punch_?”

“ _No_ ,” she and Neville chorus firmly, and greet the Weasleys warmly.

“Hermione! Neville, you sly old thing!” exclaims Ginny when they head into the basement kitchen. “Rawr,” she giggles.

“What on earth?” murmurs Neville into her ear, but Hermione’s _not_ telling him about Ginny’s obsession with his bedroom skills. Plus, she’s pretty sure she recognizes the signs.

“Ginny,” she asks, trying to stay stern and hide her amusement. “Have you been drinking gigglewater?”

“ _Yez!”_ chirps Ginny in a bad French accent, sending she and Fleur into a fit. Molly is more composed, sitting on the barstool and bouncing Victoire in her arms.

“Hello, Neville. Hello, Hermione,” greets Mrs. Weasley without looking up from the baby, and then tells her granddaughter, “Your mummy says this ‘mummy math’ means your milk will be clean, but perhaps we’d best stick to formula for a day or so, hmm, darling?”

“Eet eez quite safe, _Maman_ , I assure you. You pump, and zen you dump,” giggles Fleur.

“Like a chump!” chimes Ginny, tickled by her rhyme.

“Have you had gigglewater, Nev?” Hermione asks _sotto voce_.

“No-oo,” he stalls.

“Well, you’re going to. Trust me, it’s a riot.” Then louder, “Alright, ladies. Cough up the goods. Show me your gigglewater.”

Ginny’s only too happy to share, swanning about the ‘spooky,’ dilapidated splendor in an American fifties shirtwaist dress, her hair swept up in a pin-curled bouffant. She tells them all about the food (“ _Fleur helped_ so much _, you’ve got to try the_ verrines, _they’re gorgeoooooous”_ ) and hands them two ice-cold flutes filled with a transparent amber concoction.

“It’s like happiness in your mouth,” she laughs at them. “Try it, try it!”

They do, and they are delicious, and soon they’re laughing with the women downstairs and roping Arthur into doing Victoire’s favorite silly voices.

.:.

By eight, the party is in full swing. The empty house has become a manageable crush, and Hermione’s ditched her vest and Neville’s jacket in the coat room (e.g. the bedroom she and Ginny had shared).

She’s switched back and forth from Ginny’s gigglewater drinks to water to lager, and stuffed herself silly on the appetizers. She’s full, and happy, and laughing in a group with Susan and Seamus and Ernie, listening to the stories of the dating woes in the post-war era.

“Alright, darling?” asks Neville, coming up behind her to squeeze her middle.

“Delightful,” she tells him and pecks him on the cheek.

“Good,” he murmurs beside her ear and she knows he didn’t mean it to be erotic, but she can’t help curling her toes.

.:.

“You ever try one of these?” he asks sometime later, when she’s sitting on his lap in a squishy, magically elongated sofa. It’s accommodating entirely too many people (including a snogging George and Angelina on the end), and she’s feeling drowsy and content, listening to the stories from the older generation with one ear and his heartbeat with the other.

“An Aero? Neville, my parents are dentists. I snuck sweets every chance I got,” she laughs at him, and snatches the miniature chocolate from his fingers.

“Not fair,” he says, and kisses her while her mouth’s still full of chocolate.

.:.

There aren’t many kids there – only Teddy and Victoire, really – so it’s a massive shock when she goes searching for him around ten and finds him sitting in the coatroom, hugging a sleeping Teddy Lupin to his chest. “Dromeda’s just tracking down Ted – wants to get out of here and get him to bed before it gets too much later. Poor tot’s dead to the world,” he adds, smoothing a hand up the toddler’s back.

“Of course,” she murmurs, and shuts the door behind her so she can watch him take care of the baby in the quiet.

“You’re staring,” he chastises, meeting her eyes.

“You’re worth staring at,” she replies and smiles at him with her whole heart in her eyes.

.:.

“Oh. My. God,” she says in a hushed voice around eleven o’clock. She’s got Ron cornered in the kitchen pantry and she’s not letting him out until they talk about this. “I can’t _believe_ you’re dating a Slytherin.”

“ _Hermione_ ,” Ron reproaches. “What an awful thing to say. You know perfectly well—”

“Oh, stop it,” she interrupts. “ _I_ don’t care that you’re dating a Slytherin, I’m just stunned that _you_ – Ron ‘There’s no good Slytherin but a dead Slytherin’ Bilius Weasley – are _dating_ a _Slytherin_.”

“I really like her,” he defends hotly. “And Tracey’s a wonderful girl.”

“Good,” says Hermione. “I’m glad. Would you prefer we start with the bezoar, or shall I kick it off by casting some disenchantments on you?”

“Alright, alright, come off it,” he grouses, blushing furiously.

.:.

Tracey Davis _is_ a wonderful girl, as it turns out.

“If it hadn’t been for him, I’d still be married to that old troll and probably be pregnant by now,” she giggles after midnight, down in the kitchen with the rest of the younger women.

She’s also crying, just a little bit.

“Hush, love,” croons Ginny, rubbing her back.

“That’s why I didn’t say _yes_ , the first couple times he asked me out.” Tracey takes another sip of gigglewater, trying to force herself back to a happier state. “I didn’t want to be that girl, who gets rescued and then falls all over herself to make her ‘hero’ happy. And he’d seen me _like that_ – I thought no wizard worth having would want a witch like me. And I—” she cuts herself off, wiping a hand over her mouth and laughing frantically.

“Then, _of course_ , once I did say yes, he stood me up three times! I hexed him that last time, when he showed up at my door five hours late.

“And now, sweet Danu,” says Tracey Davis, Slytherin, looking up at the pot rack and wiping at her eyes. “I think I _love him_. I love Ron Weasley.”

.:.

“Everything go okay, Pretty Girl?” croons Neville when they get back to his house well after midnight.

The lanky gray dog picks her head up to eye them doubtfully, stretched out in front of the hearth, which is still warm even hours after they extinguished the fire.

“What an eerie creature you are, my dear,” Hermione tells her fondly, toeing out of the boots and tossing her vest and bag onto the sofa.

Perdita relaxes back onto the ground with an extended, luxurious groan.

“Off to the shower with you,” she tells Neville when he tries to follow her into the bedroom even though he smells like a tobacconist’s. “You reek like a house fire.”

“I was _bonding_. With the menfolk,” Neville tells her.

“I’m so happy for you,” she says, “now go shower.”

.:.

“Hi,” she greets five minutes later, pulling the glass door shut behind her.

“Heyyy,” he says, rinsing the soap from his hair. “ _I_ had to shower because I – _allegedly_ – smelled like a forest fire. What are you doing in here?”

“It was a house fire, and thank you for showering,” she says, sliding her hands up his slick chest. “Believe it or not, sometimes girls smell, too, especially after they spend all night drinking in snow gear at a hot house party.”

“I _told_ you we’d be warm,” he says on a sharp exhale, and she leans forward to taste the clean skin of his neck.

“You were,” she murmurs, “ _so_ right.”

“I love being right,” he moans as she rakes her nails softly down his chest. “Good Godric, are we going to have shower sex?”

“Mmm,” she hums, looking up at him with half-lidded sex eyes. “No. Now get out of the way, I need to soap up.”

“Tease,” he chastises, and gives her bum a good squeeze before shifting over.

.:.

“Hi,” he whispers softly twenty minutes later when she finally comes to bed.

“Hello, love. Thirsty?”

She toes off her slippers and slides under the duvet, handing him a glass of water.

She drains her own glass and sets it on the nightstand, adding his next to it when he passes it back.

“What a great party,” he remarks into her hair after she’s cuddled up to him and comfortable.

“It really was. I can’t believe they pulled all that off with only a few weeks’ notice.”

“I like Tracey,” she says as she plays her fingers up and down his side. “I think they’ll be really good for one another. Give them each a person to take care of.”

“She seems like a lovely girl,” Neville agrees sleepily.

“Did I scare you?” she asks in a small voice after she’s gathered her courage.

“What?” His voice is confused, and he pulls back and rearranges them so they can see each other’s face, which is exactly what she _doesn’t_ want. “No, you didn’t scare me. What are you talking about?”

“When I told you I liked staring at you?” she whispers, eyes focused on his neck.

“Well, first off,” he says in an unexpectedly strong voice. “That’s _not_ what you said. You said, I quote, ‘You’re worth staring at.’ Which, I’ll have you know, has to be the nicest, most romantic thing anyone’s said to me _ever_ – made me feel like I could summit Mt. Everest with a flying carpet and a bubble-head charm.”

“That wouldn’t work,” she starts, eager to derail the conversation.

“I _know_ that,” he interrupts right back, “and stop talking. I have something to say to you. Are you ready?”

“I think so,” she says, and looks up to meet his eyes.

“You’re my best friend, and I respect the hell out of you. I want you to know…” he exhales sharply, and rubs softly a hand across her cheek.

“Hermione,” he says. “I love you.”

“ _Oh,_ ” she says and kisses him hard. “I love you, too.”

“You numpty,” he tells her laughingly a few minutes later. “You were supposed to say ‘I know.’”

“I know,” she tells him, and kisses him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed this divergence into Neville x Hermione. If you have any feedback (or catch a typo!), please feel free to share your thoughts.
> 
> Thank you all so much for your overwhelming love – I've delighted in each and every comment. And if this story inspires you to write a Neville x Hermione fic, I encourage you to share it! They are sadly underrepresented in fandom in spite of Neville's canon cinnamon roll-ness and how delicious Matthew Lewis turned out.


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